With husband Tim stationed in Egypt and children at boarding-school, Hester Christie—affectionately known as “Mrs. Tim” and based loosely on D.E. Stevenson herself—finds herself at a loose end, until her friend Grace finds her a job with the formidable Erica Clutterbuck, who has opened a new hotel in the Scottish Borders.
Hester’s initial ambivalence disappears in a swirl of problems and situations with hotel guests and old friends alike. She serves as fortune teller at the local fête, and aids and abets romantic schemes, not to mention handling the reappearance of the debonair Tony Morley.
This volume, first published in 1947, is a sequel to Mrs. Tim Carries On and brings Hester into the immediate postwar years. Her exploits continue in Mrs. Tim Flies Home. All three titles are back in print for the first time in decades from Furrowed Middlebrow and Dean Street Press. They include a new introduction by Alexander McCall Smith.
“D.E. Stevenson brings back after some years’ silence, and here she is the same charming, witty woman, a little older, a little wiser but just as busy as ever.” Edinburgh Evening News
“Mrs Tim’s latest role is managing an hotel in the Borders—a task which she performs with the charm and tact that have captivated many readers.” Scotsman
“It is a delightful book, and long may Mrs Tim flourish!” Sunday Times
FM24
MONDAY, 4TH FEBRUARY
This seems a curious day to start a diary. I ought to have started on the first of January, but felt too lazy and depressed. Today I have received a letter from Tim, who is at present in Egypt, saying he hopes I have started another diary, if not will I please begin at once. He is keeping one himself, and it will be fun to compare notes when he returns. “For instance,” says Tim. “What were you doing on the 20th January at 1700 hours?”
After making a hasty calculation I discover that 1700 hours is five o’clock in the afternoon, so it is probable that I was drinking tea, either in my own house or somebody else’s . . . but quite impossible to remember anything at all about it. Was that the day I went to tea with Grace MacDougall and her twins behaved so badly, or was it the day Annie went out, and Betty and I had tea together in the kitchen and amused ourselves by telling fortunes with cards? (There is something rather alarming in the discovery that one’s memory is so unreliable . . . the days slip by and are lost forever.)
Tim continues, “Now that you have finished counting on your fingers, and have discovered the time of day to which I refer, I hope you will be able to satisfy my curiosity. The fact is I had a very strange dream—having fallen asleep over a belated cup of tea—and I should like to know if it is founded upon fact.”
Tim does not tell me his dream, which is most annoying of him. The remainder of his letter is full of a visit to the Sphinx and of enquiries as to the welfare of the children (how is Bryan getting on at Harton, and have I discovered a suitable boarding school for Betty to go to after Easter?) and I am so annoyed with Tim, and so full of burning curiosity about his dream that I decide to write at once and tell him that the Sphinx has nothing on him for tantalizing mystery.
At this moment the door flies open and Grace MacDougall rushes in, full of excitement. “It’s all right,” she cries, waving a letter at me. “It’s absolutely all right. Erica says yes.”
Grace is frequently excited, for she is a young woman full of nervous energy, so her abrupt entry does not disturb me in the least. I point to a chair and ask her to be seated and congratulate her upon finding a nurse for the twins.
“A nurse!” exclaims Grace in amazement. “But I haven’t! There aren’t any. What on earth do you mean?”
“‘Erica says yes,’” I quote briefly.
“Erica!” exclaims Grace. “Oh, I see! Oh, of course I didn’t tell you about it, did I? The fact is I didn’t want you to be disappointed, and of course I didn’t know what she’d say until I asked her, so I thought—”
“Who is Erica?” I enquire.
“Erica Clutterbuck, of course. I’m sure I must have mentioned her.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a most extraordinary name.”
Grace smiles. She has a very delightful smile which makes her look prettier than ever. “It’s a good name,” says Grace. “The Clutterbucks are a very old Border family—that’s why it was so sickening for poor Erica to be left so badly off when old Mr. Clutterbuck died. She had absolutely nothing except the house, and she didn’t want to sell it, of course.”
I nod gravely and assure Grace that I understand and sympathize with Miss Clutterbuck’s predicament and add that I hope she will be able to manage the twins.
“Oh, goodness!” exclaims Grace impatiently. “I’ve told you already it has nothing to do with the twins, and anyhow I wouldn’t have Erica as a nurse for the poor lambs if she were the only woman left alive. She’d probably knock their heads together in the first five minutes.”
It is on the tip of my tongue to reply that quite a number of women might be tempted to commit this atrocity, but I manage to refrain.
“Well, anyhow,” says Grace proudly, “the long and the short of it is I’ve found you a job.”
“A job!”
“Yes, Hester, a job. You said you wanted a job, didn’t you? And of course I understood exactly how you felt. I mean if it weren’t for the twins, who take up all my time, and more, I should take a job myself. Now that Jack is away in Egypt life is simply too dreary—or would be, if it weren’t for the twins. They keep me cheerful, of course. Hester, d’you know what Ian said this morning? It was too sweet . . .”
Grace chatters on, but I am much too preoccupied with my own thoughts to listen. Now that I think about it I have a faint recollection that in a depression of spirits following upon Tim’s departure I did say I must get a job—and probably meant it. Since then, however, I seem to have recovered and the idea of a job is most unattractive.
“It’s very unselfish of me,” continues Grace. “You’re really my only friend—the only woman in the place with a sense of humour—and I’m sure I don’t know what on earth I shall do without you to hold my hand when the twins get colds or measles or tummy-aches. It will be just too frightful,” says Grace earnestly. “But I feel I’m doing the Right Thing. You want a job, so I’ve found one for you and you’ll be much happier with lots to do; the time will pass like lightning; and Erica seems only too pleased to have you, so I’ve done two people a Good Turn,” says Grace with the air of a complacent Boy Scout.
Grace is so charmed with her project that I haven’t the moral courage to tell her I have changed my mind and don’t want a job, but only want to remain peacefully in Donford until such time as Tim returns from Egypt. Instead I enquire faintly what sort of job is being offered me.
“A lovely job,” declares Grace. “I’d take it myself like a shot if it weren’t for the twins. A terribly interesting job. Erica has turned her house into a country hotel and she wants you—”
“But I couldn’t possibly!”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know anything about hotels.”
“You’ll soon learn . . .”
“I don’t want to. . . . I couldn’t!”
“Don’t be silly,” says Grace firmly. “It’s just like house-keeping on a larger scale—besides, Erica does everything. Erica is tremendously capable.”
“Then why does she want me?”
“To help her of course. She can’t be in fifteen places at once.”
“Grace—”
“No, listen,” says Grace. “Just listen to me. What are you going to do with yourself when Betty goes to boarding school? You aren’t going to stay on here at Donford with nothing to do except look after the house.”
“There’s quite a lot to do—”
“Nonsense,” says Grace briskly. “Be sensible, Hester.”
“—and the children will be here in the holidays.”
“They’ll be there,” says Grace
. “I told Erica all about Bryan and Betty. She says they can go to Tocher House for the holidays.”
“What is it called?” I enquire.
“Tocher House,” says Grace. “It’s very old indeed. It was built by a man called Sir Alexander Johnstone as a dowry for his daughter. She married a Clutterbuck, you see, and it’s been in the Clutterbuck family ever since. Isn’t it interesting?”
“Very interesting,” I agree in tepid tones.
“You’ll love it,” declares Grace. “Bryan and Betty will have a lovely time there in the holidays. They’ll fish in the Rydd and climb the hills and—”
“They won’t because I’m not going there.”
“Hester, please listen—”
“I’m not going to Tocher House.”
We argue heatedly. I learn that Miss Clutterbuck’s mansion is about five miles from a small town called Ryddelton in the Scottish Borders. Grace stayed there several times when old Mr. Clutterbuck was alive and has exceedingly pleasant memories of its amenities and of its glorious situation amongst purple-heathered hills.
“Poor Erica!” says Grace with a sigh. “She’s a funny old stick—must be fifty if she’s a day—and very fat and ugly. Of course she hates everybody; that’s natural, isn’t it?”
“Natural to hate everybody!” I exclaim.
“The guests or clients or whatever you call them,” says Grace impatiently. “It’s only natural she should hate to see them throwing their weight about in her house. That’s one of the reasons she wants you, of course. You’ll be a sort of buffer between her and them.”
The mere idea of being a buffer between Miss Clutterbuck and her guests is so alarming that I pull myself together and tell Grace firmly that nothing she can say or do will persuade me to take the job.
Grace leaves immediately saying she does not understand me at all.
WEDNESDAY, 13TH FEBRUARY
Betty and I have breakfast together as usual and—as usual—Betty is full of high spirits. As I look at her, eating her porridge, I begin to realize how much I shall miss her “bright morning face” when she goes to boarding school. She announces with relish that this is the thirteenth. What do I think will happen? Reply that I am not affected by that particular superstition. Betty says Annie once lost her brooch on the thirteenth. It was a lovely brooch, given her by Bollings before they were married, so it was frightfully unlucky, but that was a Friday, which is worse. Fortunately she does not wait for my reaction but goes on to remark in her haphazard way that she’s sick of school and Miss Clarke is an awful ass.
Feel that this is the wrong attitude for a child of twelve and endeavour to rectify it.
Betty says with brutal candour, “She’s getting old, of course.”
This seems the right moment to mention boarding school, so I take a long breath and mention it.
Betty considers the matter. “I wouldn’t mind,” she declares. “It might be rather fun. I suppose I couldn’t possibly go to Dinwell Hall? Jane Carter has gone there and she likes it awfully. It’s near Edinburgh, you know.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
“But what about you?” says Betty, looking at me doubtfully. “It would be frightfully dull for you without me, wouldn’t it?”
“Frightfully dull,” I agreed. “But that can’t be helped. I shall see you in the holidays.”
We discuss the matter thoroughly—in fact we discuss it so thoroughly that Betty is late in starting for school.
When she has gone I ring up Mamie Carter (the mother of Betty’s friend) and make searching enquiries about Dinwell Hall. Mamie says it is ideal and urges me to send Betty there; she gives me the name of the headmistress and tells me to write at once. Feel that things are moving much too fast and go upstairs, in a dejected mood, to make the beds.
Am still in the throes of bed making when Annie brings up the letters.
“None from the Colonel, today,” says Annie in commiserating tones. “But there’s no need to worry. I got one from Bill and he says the Colonel’s in fine form. Bill says they went and saw the spinks; it’s a sort of War Memorial.”
Bill Bolling is Annie’s husband and also Tim’s batman. They have both been with us for many years and are definitely part of the family. I am, therefore, much more interested in Annie’s letter than in my own two letters which Annie has placed upon the dressing table.
We discuss the various items of news contained in Annie’s letter and the possibility of wives being permitted to join their husbands in Egypt . . . which leads in turn to the problem of Betty’s future. Annie seems resigned to the idea of boarding school which surprises me a good deal.
“She’d like it,” Annie says. “That Miss Clarke was all very well when she was little. Betty’s getting too old for Miss Clarke, that’s what’s the matter . . .”
It is all quite true, of course.
My letters are both addressed in unknown handwriting and, looking at them, I wonder idly why two complete strangers have found it necessary to write to me on the same day. Annie is interested too. She points out that one of them bears a London postmark and advises me to open it first.
I open it and am immediately plunged in gloom. The letter is from my landlord and announces that owing to a change of plan he is obliged to ask us to vacate Winfield by the end of March.
“It’s the thirteenth,” says Annie. “I felt in my bones there’d be something bad happen today. I was almost afraid to open Bill’s letter—but this is it.”
“This is it,” I echo in despair.
“What about the Colonel’s uncle?” suggests Annie. “The one who lives at Cobstead. It wouldn’t be bad at Cobstead now the war’s over and no bombing. Or perhaps Mrs. Loudon would have us at Avielochan for the summer.”
These are possibilities of course, but I hate the thought of dumping myself upon relations or friends for indefinite periods. It seems odd that half an hour ago I was quite happy and settled, and now I am a homeless wanderer upon the face of the earth.
“We’ve been here so long,” says Annie thoughtfully. “I’d begun to think Winfield belonged to us . . . I’d got used to it, if you know what I mean.”
I know what she means only too well.
Annie sighs and takes up her duster. “Don’t you worry,” she says comfortingly. “Something’ll turn up—it always does. I remember what a fix I was in when Mother died—and then I got your letter saying come on Friday.”
“That wasn’t yesterday,” I tell her, trying to smile.
It is some time before I recover sufficiently to open my other letter. The writing is large and determined but exceedingly difficult to read and the signature beats me entirely until a sudden brilliant inspiration suggests it may be Erica Clutterbuck, all run together into one word. Having decided that it can’t be anything else I turn back to the first page and set to work, and after some struggles I discover that Miss Clutterbuck is exceedingly glad to hear from Grace that I am coming to help her with her hotel. She is willing to engage me immediately—the sooner the better—and she will take the children in the holidays and “give them the run of their teeth.” She mentions the salary she is prepared to offer, and hopes it will be acceptable, but, as this part of the letter is quite illegible, I cannot tell whether it is acceptable or not. Grace has told her I have no experience, but Miss Clutterbuck does not mind as long as I have my head screwed on the right way. Miss Clutterbuck has had to sack her former assistant because she was a fool—no head at all and apt to take the huff when her shortcomings were mentioned. Miss Clutterbuck would like me to run the bar—no, it can’t be that—run the car, which has seen its best days but is still useful for shopping. The linen will be in my charge. Grace has told her I am patient and tactful, so (as she herself is neither the one nor the other) she thinks I am the right person to look after the social side.
Am so impressed with the coincidence of the two letters that I despatch a wire saying yes, and have no sooner done so than I am filled with apprehensi
on and dismay.
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A Furrowed Middlebrow Book
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Published by Dean Street Press 2019
Copyright © 1941 D.E. Stevenson
Introduction copyright © 2019 Alexander McCall Smith
All Rights Reserved
The right of D.E. Stevenson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1941 by William Collins
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 912574 54 4
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 30