Mrs. Tim Gets a Job

by D. E. Stevenson

  “I wish you would see Mr. Elden.”

  “I did see him,” she replies. “He came over one day and I spoke to him in the lounge.”

  “What good was that?”

  “It was no good at all.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. Why don’t you give him a chance to talk to you privately?”

  She hesitates and then says in a low voice. “He’s in Ryddelton, you know. I can’t bear it. I wish he would go away—if he doesn’t go away I shall have to leave Tocher House.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Anywhere,” she replies. “Some place where I could get a cheap room—I’ve been making enquiries. I can’t stay on here knowing he’s at Ryddelton, so near—just a few miles away—it makes me feel quite frantic . . .”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Because I love him, of course,” cries Margaret, covering her face with her hands. “That’s the awful thing; I love him dearly. I knew it when he walked into the lounge—I could have wept—I felt as if my bones had turned to water. It’s because I love him that I won’t marry him.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  She hesitates. “Oh, what’s the use of talking?” she says, relapsing into listlessness again. “I’ve been over it all a thousand times. If you don’t understand no amount of explaining will help. I’ve told you already he deserves somebody better, somebody who isn’t worn out and all on edge.”

  “But he wants you,” I murmur. “He doesn’t want somebody else.”

  “He wouldn’t want me if he knew what I was like.”

  “Give him a chance,” I plead. “Surely you can see him and let him have his say. Tell him what you feel about it.”

  “I’ve answered that already. We’re going round in circles.”

  “You haven’t answered it. You haven’t told me why you won’t see him.”

  There is a little pause and then she says firmly, “Please don’t talk about it anymore.”

  The conversation is now at an end. The case seems hopeless and I would fain take Margaret and knock her red-gold head against the wall, so stubborn and stupid does her attitude seem to me. Fortunately I have sufficient self-control to refrain from such drastic measures, but I cannot resist a parting word.

  “I think you’re mad,” I tell her, as I rise and make for the door. “You’re making yourself miserable—that’s your own affair, of course—but you’re making Roger Elden miserable, too—and all for a stupid quibble. Why can’t you make up your mind to marry the man and do your best to make him happy?”

  “You think I’m a coward!” exclaims Margaret, looking at me with a startled air.

  “Of course you’re a coward!” I cry and with that I go out, closing the door behind me and leaving her to her thoughts.

  FRIDAY, 12TH APRIL

  Erica has had a cold for the last two days but nothing will induce her to stay in bed. Today however she has lost her voice and feels so wretched that she consents to go to bed after lunch. I suggest that the doctor should be summoned but Erica doesn’t believe in doctors; she hasn’t seen a doctor for years, croaks Erica, and if she goes to bed she will be perfectly well tomorrow. It is something to get her to go to bed and I leave the question of a doctor in abeyance; I administer an aspirin, fill a hot-water bottle for her and fly to my room where I proceed to heat a poultice which will relieve the congestion in her vocal tubes.

  By the time this is ready, plastered on a piece of lint and carried along the passage between two plates, Erica is in bed. She is attired in the famous pink nightgown with the frill round her neck; her face is very red and her eyes are very bright and she is in the most appalling temper.

  “What do you want now?” enquires Erica hoarsely.

  “I’ve made a little poultice for you,” I reply in dulcet tones.

  “You’re not going to put that on me.”

  “It will do you good—honestly, it will.”

  “It will not,” she replies, holding her nightgown together across her chest and glaring at me. “It will not do me good because I am not going to have it on me.”

  “Please, Erica—”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate poultices. They make a rash on my skin. I’ve got a very tender skin; I can’t stand anything hot—”

  “Erica, listen.”

  “I will not listen. Look at the horrible sticky mess—and hot as hell, I suppose. Take it away. Take it away at once.”

  “Come on, Erica. Don’t be silly.”

  “Silly, yourself,” croaks Erica. “You’ll burn me—that’s what you’ll do. Go away and leave me in peace. I will not have the stuff on my chest.”

  I lay the poultice on the dressing table and approach my patient intending to reason with her, intending to persuade her into a better frame of mind, but at this moment the door opens and Hope appears.

  “Oh, Miss Clutterbuck!” exclaims Hope breathlessly. “If only you’d told me I’d have come before—I didn’t know you were ill.”

  “It’s all right,” I reply. “Miss Clutterbuck has a bad cold so she has gone to bed. I’ve given her a hot-water bottle.”

  “I’d have done it,” declares Hope. “I can look after her. It’s my job, Mrs. Christie.”

  The situation is extremely delicate and requires careful handling. I explain that I thought Hope was busy and that this is the reason I have taken it upon myself to play the part of nurse, but Hope is not easily appeased, she repeats that it is her job, not mine, to look after Miss Clutterbuck, and bewails the fact that she was not summoned to fill the hot-water bottle and prepare the bed.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Hope,” says Erica in a feeble croak.

  “It’s brownkitis you’ve got!” cries Hope in horrified accents. “Brownkitis or pewmonia—it’s settled on your chest. I’ll telephone the doctor to come.”

  “You will not,” declares Erica. “I have a slight cold—that’s all.”

  During this discussion the poultice has been lying upon the dressing table, cooling rapidly, and I decide to have a last try to place it upon my patient’s chest. I take it up and approach the bed with a determined air.

  “What’s that?” asks Hope, looking at it.

  “A kaolin poultice,” I reply.

  “She’d be better with a proper poultice, I don’t believe in that new-fangled stuff. Linseed and mustard is the thing, that’s what the doctor would say.”

  “Kaolin is very good.”

  “Linseed and mustard,” says Hope, firmly. “That’s nasty and sticky. Miss Clutterbuck wouldn’t like it.”

  As Hope is standing like a rock between me and the bed I am obliged to halt, we look at one another and there is a moment’s silence. The situation, which on the surface might seem absurd, is not absurd to me; for I am aware that if Hope gets her way she will despise me forever and my relations with her will be impossible.

  “Please move, Hope,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Miss Clutterbuck should have this poultice while it is hot.”

  Hope does not move an inch. “Linseed and mustard,” she repeats. “I’ll go and make it myself.”

  At this moment—while I am wondering what on earth to do and wishing with all my heart that I could see a way out of the impasse—a hoarse voice from the bed says plain-lively, “How much longer have I got to wait?”

  Erica has bared her chest.

  The spell is broken; Hope moves; I advance and lay the poultice in the correct position. It is comfortably tucked in and covered with a large piece of cotton wool.

  “How does that feel?” I enquire with solicitude.

  “Very comfortable, thank you,” says Erica aloud; adding in a low whisper “Curse you!”

  I turn away hastily to hide my smile and busy myself tidying up Erica’s clothes which she has flung down in a heap on the floor. Hope watches me for a moment and then departs, shutting the door behind her with unusual care.

  “A nice exhibition!” remarks Erica.
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  “It was decent of you, I admit.”

  “I had no alternative. What could I do but allow you to put the blue-pencil thing on my chest?”

  “It isn’t too hot, is it?”

  Eric does not answer that. Perhaps it was too much to expect. She says firmly, “Hope must really go this time.”

  “Not because of me. I don’t mind—at least not much—and I’m only here temporarily as you know. Perhaps it would be better for me to go.”

  “You know perfectly well I wouldn’t let you go.”

  “Leave it, then,” I tell her. “Perhaps Hope will be better after this. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worrying.”

  I have now finished tidying the room and am about to go.

  “Hester!” says Erica, raising herself on one elbow and scowling at me fiercely. “Hester, you’ve got everything your own way, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I admit.

  “Well, don’t take this as a precedent, that’s all,” says Erica crossly.

  MONDAY, 15TH APRIL

  Betty and I have been invited to tea at the Rydd Arms Hotel with Mr. Elden and his daughter Sheila who has come there to spend the holidays. We borrow the car and set forth, attired in our best clothes as befits the occasion. Our host and hostess are waiting for us on the steps, they greet us cordially and soon we are sitting at a round table in the dining-room window indulging in a very ample tea. Although Sheila is just the same age as Betty she is much smaller and thinner, she looks delicate and has a sad little face which lights up into a very sweet smile when she is interested or amused. She and Betty are silent at first, measuring each other carefully, and the conversation is left to Mr. Elden and myself; but tea and scones have a mellowing effect and Betty’s tongue begins to wag in its usual haphazard manner. Sheila’s reserve vanishes swiftly and chat and giggles take the place of stiff politeness; they are getting along like a house on fire.

  Mr. Elden watches the transformation with a pleased smile but fortunately he is too sensible to make any comment. We continue to discuss world affairs and agree that the prospect at the moment is far from rosy. The other conversation is much more lively, bits of it come to my ears between the gloomy remarks of Mr. Elden, and I realize that Betty and Sheila are comparing notes about school and Betty is telling Sheila all about Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  After tea the girls go out into the garden and disappear from view.

  “It’s grand,” says Mr. Elden. “I wondered what would happen. Sheila is so shy that it’s difficult for her to make friends. She’s far too old for her age, but that’s because she hasn’t got other children to play with, I’m afraid.”

  “Betty is very young for her age.”

  “I know,” agrees Mr. Elden. “She’ll be very good for Sheila. I do hope you will let Betty come over as often as possible.”

  “And Sheila must come to Tocher—you, too, of course.”

  “Sheila would love to,” he replies. “As for me I feel I had better stay away. You know why, don’t you, Mrs. Tim?”

  “I wish you could see her properly!” I exclaim. “If only you could see her and have a good talk I’m sure it would all come right.”

  “How can I force myself upon her?”

  “You must,” I tell him earnestly. “Do try to get hold of her. She’s very unhappy, you know.”

  He says nothing in answer to this appeal and looks so stern and sad that I can go no further. I long to tell him the whole story and explain Margaret’s attitude but somehow I can’t.

  As we drive home Betty and I talk about our afternoon’s entertainment—Betty is full of her new friend. “She’s nice,” says Betty earnestly. “Oh dear, I do wish she could come to Dinwell Hall instead of that dull school she goes to! I’m sorry for Sheila, you know. I thought at first it must be rather fun to be Sheila, but now I don’t.”

  “Why did you think it must be fun?” I enquire, struggling with the gears of the car.

  “She can do exactly as she likes,” replies Betty. “She can—really. She can choose her own clothes and do what she likes all the time just like a grown-up person. I thought that sounded fun.”

  “Isn’t it fun?”

  “No,” says Betty seriously. “You see if you haven’t anybody to keep you in order you have to keep yourself in order—so Sheila says. That’s why she’s a little sad and grown-up, you know. Did you notice she was like that, Mummy?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “That’s why,” says Betty with a sigh. “She has nobody to tell her to go to bed—her father just lets her go to bed when she wants to. You’d think that would be lovely, but it isn’t. Sheila goes to bed at half-past eight every night because that’s the proper time for someone who is twelve, and she can’t choose the sort of clothes she wants, because they wouldn’t be suitable and people would say, ‘Poor Sheila hasn’t got a mother to choose her clothes.’ That would be awful,” says Betty. “She couldn’t bear them to pity her because it would look as if her father was neglecting her. She thinks her father is perfect. Perhaps he is—for a father,” adds Betty doubtfully.

  “I’m sure he does his best,” I offer, shaken to the core at this revelation. “It’s rather difficult for him. Perhaps we could help a little, could we?”

  “If she would let us, but I don’t think she would. She’s sort of—proud,” says Betty, trying hard to explain. “She wouldn’t like people to interfere. There’s only one thing that could really make things right.”

  “What’s that?” I ask with interest.

  “Well—I’m afraid it’s a secret,” replies Betty regretfully. “Sheila told me about it, but it’s the most confidential secret on earth. I promised faithfully, cross my heart, I wouldn’t mention it to a single solitary soul.”

  TUESDAY, 16TH APRIL

  Erica has made a very rapid recovery; which I assure her is due to the beneficent effect of the poultice, but which she puts down to her own strength of will. The great thing is, says Erica, to make up your mind to get well quickly. Nothing else is any good at all. I persuade her to take one more day of leisure to complete the cure, and this she consents to do, chiefly because she is anxious to be in full fighting trim for a fête which is to be held at Ryddelton Park, tomorrow afternoon. The fête is in aid of the Thistle Foundation, to provide houses for seriously disabled soldiers. We have been hearing about this fête for some time, Erica has attended meetings to organize the arrangements and as she is a born organizer with dynamic drive most of the work has been done by her. She dislikes meetings intensely—or so she would have us believe—but I notice that she returns from them full of vim and vigour with the light of battle, and of victory, blazing in her eye. It is difficult to know whether to be sorry for the other members of the committee, who are obliged to bow their heads before her, or to envy them for having amongst them a woman who will shoulder all the burdens provided she is allowed to have her own way.

  The last three days have been busy days for me, but the work does not worry me now, for I know exactly how to tackle it. The only thing that worries me is the way time flies, there are not enough hours in the day to accomplish all I want to do.

  At lunch time I receive a letter from Tim and here at last is an account of his dream which I have been trying to get out of him for the last two months and which has teased my mind off and on since he mentioned it last February.

  “You know how difficult it is to describe a dream,” writes Tim. “And as a matter of fact you seem to have attached so much importance to it that you may find my description a bit of an anti-climax. The only important thing about it is I saw you so clearly. You were standing in a garden wearing a blue dress and there were pigeons flying round you. They were flying down from the trees and picking up crumbs which you were scattering on the grass. That’s absolutely all. It doesn’t sound much, but it made a great impression upon me at the time. It was so vivid that I wondered whether I had really seen you—silly, wasn’t it? Talking of p
igeons I was very interested to hear about Todd’s. I hope Max won his race and brought glory to the Tocher loft. Todd sounds a nice fellow, I should like to have a talk with him someday. You, yourself, sound much more cheerful so perhaps after all it was a good idea to take that job, but you will have to give it up in the summer and go to Cobstead with Bryan and Betty for the holidays. I wish there were some prospect of my being free to join you but it is no use holding out any hopes of that. No chance of leave, either, I’m afraid.”

  There are several things to think about in Tim’s letter: the dream, for instance. At first I feel a little disappointed, for it seems tame after all my lively imaginings, but after a few moments’ consideration I decide there is something very odd about it, something rather alarming. I never fed pigeons until I came to Tocher House—months after Tim’s dream. What is the explanation? Was it merely coincidence that Tim should dream of me scattering crumbs for pigeons, or was it prophetic—a shadow of things to come? If so my coming to Tocher House was fore-ordained, not merely the outcome of chance and my own impulsive action. Do I believe that everything in life is fore-ordained? No, I feel sure that we have a free choice, that we can take this path, or that. I could not bear to think that our lives are planned in advance; it would be incredibly dull to say the least of it . . . and if our actions were ordained beforehand all responsibility would be removed from our shoulders and there would be no credit in behaving well, no shame in behaving badly. No, I shall continue to believe that I came to Tocher House of my own free will . . . Tim’s dream must remain an unexplained and unexplainable mystery.

  WEDNESDAY, 17TH APRIL

  Erica comes down to breakfast in good spirits and says she is as fit as a fiddle. It is the day of the fête at Ryddelton Park. The hall is decorated with an enormous poster which gives full information about the Thistle Foundation, and a bus has been chartered to convey the guests of Tocher House to the scene of revelry. Erica—in her usual downright way—has made it perfectly clear that she expects all her guests to attend and to spend as much money as possible in aid of the disabled soldiers. It is decreed that Erica and I are to go early, in the car, which will then return to Tocher to fetch any members of the staff who can be spared from their duties. Betty is going with Margaret McQueen.