D.E. Stevenson
Mrs. Tim Flies Home
Sometimes it is difficult to see where one’s duty lies (and especially difficult for people with a husband in one part of the world and children in another) but Tim and I decided that I ought to go home.
Hester Christie, the delightful heroine last met in Mrs. Tim Gets a Job, has spent a blissful 18 months living in Kenya where husband Tim is posted. But now it's back to England to be with her two nearly grown children. She rents a house near the village of Old Quinings in England’s North Country, and plans a quiet summer with the children near the inn owned by her beloved former maid Annie and her husband.
But things are never quiet for long with Mrs Tim, and she must navigate curious neighbors, a dishonest landlady, and a troublesome travel companion who makes an unwelcome appearance in Old Quinings, not to mention a bit of intrigue and—as usual for Hester—a bit of matchmaking for young lovers.
Mrs. Tim Flies Home, first published in 1952, concludes D.E. Stevenson’s much-loved Mrs. Tim series. Furrowed Middlebrow and Dean Street Press have also reprinted Mrs. Tim Carries On and Mrs. Tim Gets a Job. This new edition features an introduction by Alexander McCall Smith.
“Another charming romance . . . Strongly recommended for pleasurable reading.” Edinburgh Evening News
FM25
Contents
Cover
Title Page/About the Book
Contents
Introduction by Alexander McCall Smith
Part 1 – Flying Above the Clouds
Part II – Quiet Days at the Small House
Part III – The Serpent in the Garden
Part IV – Busy Days at the Small House
Part V – The Wind Changes
About the Author
Titles by D.E. Stevenson
Furrowed Middlebrow Titles
Smouldering Fire – Title Page
Smouldering Fire – Chapter I
Copyright
INTRODUCTION
BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
Dorothy Emily Stevenson is one of those authors who has been largely forgotten in the literary world. Not that she was ever particularly recognised in such circles: she was far too popular to be taken seriously by the critics – she was too comfortable, too easy to read. And yet, in spite of this condescension that is so often dispensed by the guardians of literary standards, Stevenson was bought by millions all over the world and is still appreciated by many readers who continue to read her work. Certainly her books are easy, in the sense that they are clearly written, they tell an intelligible tale, and do not seek to impress the reader. There is also a certain sameness to them. And yet they still have an appeal that has kept them in print. So these are not ephemeral romances of the sort that are instantly forgettable. Nor do they remotely approach the level achieved by that great story-teller of the era, Maugham. They are somewhere in the middle-rung territory below such books, but that is a perfectly good place to be, and a worthy one too. These novels still bring pleasure and remind us of a world, and of a country, that has changed out of all recognition. And as that world becomes more unhappy and divided, the attraction of authors such as Stevenson perhaps becomes stronger.
Dorothy Stevenson was a Scottish author, although she is rarely mentioned in Scottish literary history. She was the bearer of a famous name: she was a member of the Stevenson family of lighthouse engineers who, over several generations, built almost all of Scotland’s lighthouses, including engineering marvels such as the Bell Rock Lighthouse. That makes her a member of the same family as Robert Louis Stevenson, author of classics such as Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and that perennial favourite, A Child’s Garden of Verses. She was born into this family in 1892 and had the typical upbringing of a member of the well-heeled Scottish professional class. She was keen to go to university, but there was little parental support for this ambition, and she made, instead, a conventional marriage to a member of the Peploe family. Her husband, an army officer, was a relative of Samuel Peploe, one of the greatest of Scotland twentieth-century painters and a major figure in the Scottish Colourist movement.
Stevenson was a prolific writer, writing a book a year during the course of a career that lasted until 1969, when her final book was published. Her first success was Mrs Tim and the Regiment; this was soon followed by a series of light and humorous titles. Thereafter her popularity grew, as readers turned with delight to the reappearance of familiar characters and the following of a tried and tested formula. The books eluded the sort of classification that reviewers and scholars like to engage in. They are not simple romances; nor are they anything that would today be recognised as thrillers. They are in a category of their own: clearly-written straightforward tales that take the reader through a clear plot and reach a recognisable and unambiguous ending. The appeal that they have for the contemporary reader lies in the fact that there is no artifice in these books. They are not about dysfunctional people. They are not about psychopathology. There is no gore or sadism in them. The characters speak in sentences and do not resort to constant confrontational exchanges. In other words, these books are far from modern. But therein, perhaps, lies the charm to which Stevenson’s many readers are so quick to respond.
One of the main features of Stevenson’s novels is their simplicity. That is a quality that is not rated in fiction today. Many writers now feel that in order to be noticed they must go out of their way to be clever – even to the extent of being opaque. Nothing should be portrayed as it seems to be; cynicism is all; sincerity is hopelessly naïve. In such a climate, direct stories that follow a fairly strict chronological pattern, that eschew obfuscation, and that place feasible and, in many cases, rather likeable characters centre-stage are not highly regarded. And yet that is exactly what Stevenson does, and that is what many readers still seem to want. Add humour to the equation and the mixture will find a ready audience.
A particular feature of Stevenson’s oeuvre is the way in which characters that appear in one book may crop up in another context in a quite different title. Readers like this because in a way it reflects the way the world is; our lives are not linear narratives – they are meandering stories that take place in diverse settings and that are peopled by characters who drop in and out at various stages. Stevenson is one of those authors, then, who creates a whole world: her novels have that quality that family sagas have, and the story of families, their achievements and disappointments, their tragedies and triumphs, are perennially popular. Why? Because this is, in essence, the experience of most of us. For just about everyone, family life is exactly that: a saga.
Yet they do not ignore the social and political turmoil of the time in which they were written. Stevenson wrote eight novels during the Second World War, and these books certainly have something to say about life on the home front in that period. And that leads to a general conclusion about Stevenson’s work. These are not necessarily novels in which there is a great deal of drama, but for those who wish to spend time amongst characters leading fairly ordinary lives, these novels will provide considerable enjoyment. We don’t want too much excitement. Or, if we do opt for some excitement, we like to moderate it with periods of relative quiet. And then, at the end of these, if there is a happy ending, if lovers are reunited – as they tend to be in Stevenson’s fiction – then all the better. These are gentle books, very fitting for times of uncertainty and conflict. Some books can be prescribed for anxiety – these are in that category. And it is an honourable and important one.
Alexander McCall Smith
Part I
Flying Above the Clouds
Wednesday, 13th June
The beginning of a journey by air is the moment when you emerge from the air-station and s
ee before you a large flat plain and your aeroplane waiting for you. There it stands, a huge ungainly monster, with a silver body and wings and two enormous wheels. The fact that it possesses both wheels and wings is symbolic, showing it to be a monster of earth and air—just as a frog is a monster of earth and water. (We call the frog an amphibian but as far as I know there is no proper word for a creature having seizin of earth and air.)
If you are at all like me, your first thought on beholding the silver monster will be: Can it possibly fly? Can that man-made contraption soar into the air like a bird? Your second will be that it looks extremely unsafe—a gimcrack sort of monster—and (again if you are like me) you will feel a strange reluctance to climb the ladder which is placed so conveniently against the monster’s side and enter the small dark aperture in its ribs; but if you are reluctant to embark you are even more reluctant to brand yourself a coward (and, incidentally, you have made all your plans and paid the earth for your ticket) so you exclaim with false assurance, “Ah, there’s my plane!” and march forward to your fate.
All these curious ideas sweep through my mind in a moment, and this reminds me that a drowning man sees his whole life pass before his eyes before he sinks to the bottom for the last time (though how we know that it does so I cannot imagine). In some ways I am like that drowning man, that man who will clutch at a straw, but it is not my whole life which passes before my eyes—merely the last eighteen months, which I have spent in Kenya living in the lap of luxury and doing my best to sustain the part of Colonel’s Wife with reasonable dignity. This last eighteen months has been a happy time—a time of sunshine and gaiety—and now I am leaving it all behind. I am leaving the large airy bungalow with the chintz curtains, leaving the garden with its gorgeous array of tropical plants; worst of all, I am leaving Tim.
Tim has come to see me off, of course, and at this very moment is walking with me towards the plane. Suddenly he grabs my arm and says in beseeching accents, “Hester, don’t go!”
“Don’t go!” I echo, standing still and looking at him in amazement.
“I don’t want you to go in that thing,” explains Tim in rapid undertones. “I mean, not alone. It wouldn’t be so bad if I were coming too. Of course I’ve flown a lot myself and thought nothing of it, but that’s quite different. I mean it’s a bit terrifying at first—and anyhow the children don’t need you nearly as much as I do. Bryan is grown up.”
“But, Tim, we talked it all over and agreed—”
“It was crazy,” he declares. “I must have been mad to agree. Don’t go, Hester.”
“Tim! I’ve got to go!”
“But I can’t bear it!” cries Tim.
During this impassioned appeal the other passengers are streaming past, climbing the silver steps and disappearing one by one into the monster’s belly.
“But it’s all fixed!” I exclaim. “You know quite well I must go. It’s all fixed.”
“We can unfix it,” Tim declares. “It isn’t too late.”
But of course it is too late for at this moment a large smiling steward approaches and takes my suitcase from Tim’s unwilling hand. “It’s all right, Colonel,” says the smiling steward. “I’ve kept a good seat for Mrs. Christie. I’m afraid I must ask you to go back, sir, or I’ll be getting into trouble. Only passengers are allowed on the airstrip.”
“Yes,” says Tim. “Yes, we don’t want to get you into trouble, but the fact is Mrs. Christie has changed her mind and—”
“Good-bye, Tim, darling!” I cry, throwing my arms round his neck and kissing him.
“Good-bye,” says Tim miserably. “You’ll cable from Rome—don’t forget to cable from Rome. This is hell!” he adds in a choked voice as he squeezes my hand into pulp. “I never realised—well—good-bye.”
He salutes and walks away smartly, while I, wearing a false smile, climb up the ladder and enter the plane.
I know quite well what Tim is feeling and can sympathise with him profoundly, for I have experienced the same misery a hundred times. I have said good-bye to Tim and watched him being whirled away to the ends of the earth in planes or trains or ships . . . but, looking back down the years of our married life, I cannot remember a single occasion upon which Tim saw me off and was left behind. I have always suspected it was a good deal worse for the one who was left behind and now I know. Poor Tim! But he will be all right, I tell myself firmly. People will be kind to him—for people who dwell in the far-flung outposts of the British Empire stand together and bear one another’s burdens. Yes, I tell myself (as I accept the seat which the steward has reserved for me) yes, Tim will be well looked after; it’s right for me to go home. . . . And the reflection that I am doing my duty comforts me considerably for, if by any chance one should be killed in the execution of one’s duty, it would be a noble end.
Sometimes it is difficult to see clearly in what direction one’s duty lies (and especially difficult for people like myself with a husband in one part of the world and children in another) but Tim and I, talking it over together in cold blood, decided that I ought to go home. My brother Richard and his wife have been extremely kind to Bryan and Betty but the responsibilities of parenthood cannot be delegated and although—as Tim says—Bryan is grown-up, I feel he needs me more, not less, than when he was comfortably settled at school. Betty needs me less, for Betty is a self-contained unit and is of a philosophical nature.
“You must fasten your safety-belt,” says a voice in my ear, but before I can comply with the instruction two thin hands seize the belt and buckle it firmly across my waist. The owner of the voice and hands is my neighbour and as I look round at her and murmur my thanks I see a thin brown face with well-marked eyebrows and very dark brown eyes.
“It’s all right,” she says. “Perhaps you haven’t flown before. We always have to fasten our safety-belts going up and coming down.”
By this time the plane has taxied out to the far end of the airstrip and halted there. The engines are going like mad and the monster is quivering in every strut, panting to be off but held back from this laudable desire by some unseen force. It is like a greyhound straining at the slips—or so I feel. Then suddenly the slips are loosed and away goes the monster tearing down the field faster and faster. The buildings approach rapidly and for a few brief moments I have a horrible suspicion that something has gone wrong and the monster will not rise . . . but lo, we are above the buildings and all is well; the monster is air-borne!
“I’ve flown a lot,” says my neighbour comfortingly, “but it’s always a little nerve-wracking going up and coming down. You can unfasten yourself now, and smoke if you want to,” and she points out a notice in red lights to that effect.
Having broken the ice we begin to chat. She asks if I am flying straight home and I reply that I intend to break my journey at Rome and stay there two nights, Tim having insisted that this will be less tiring. My neighbour announces that she is staying in Rome for a week with an old school-friend. She then goes on to tell me that she has been visiting a friend (whose husband is a District Commissioner near Lake Victoria) and is on her way home to see her son. Her name, she tells me, is Rosa Alston, which sounds pleasant in my ears, but Mrs. Alston is dissatisfied with it and explains that many people refer to her as “Roseralston.”
“It can’t be helped, of course,” says Mrs. Alston. “My name was Rosa Burton before I married and that sounds good.”
“So you can’t blame your parents!”
“Oh, I don’t,” replies Mrs. Alston unsmilingly.
The joke was feeble, it is true, but I am a trifle disappointed that it did not obtain recognition from Mrs. Alston.
She continues: “As a matter of fact the habit of putting an R in the wrong place is quite modern. I hate it, don’t you?”
“Yes, it certainly is very ugly.”
“Even the B.B.C. announcers do it sometimes,” adds Mrs. Alston with a sigh.
I am now too interested in my surroundings to continue the conversation, for
we are mounting higher every moment. Above us is the blue, blue sky with the sun blazing in it like a golden fire. There is no feeling of rushing through the air, no feeling of speed, the plane seems to be floating along peacefully in space. The cloud formations are magnificent and somehow they look much more solid than they do from the ground. Below are patches of fleecy cloud which move along slowly in the wind and between them there are glimpses of land (like a carpet, perfectly flat, with a curious pattern upon it). Away on the horizon there are banks of cloud which might be snow-covered mountains; there are clouds which tower up, hundreds of feet high, and look like fairy palaces of pink and white marble, and there are clouds which look like icebergs and glisten in the sun.
All this is wonderful to behold; so wonderful and so unlike anything that I have seen before that I forget to be frightened and I feel as if my eyes were getting bigger and bigger, trying to see it all at once.
Presently the cloud below us thickens into a solid blanket, blotting out every sign of the world. It is a very queer feeling to be high up in the sky with clouds all round us and clouds below, with no land in sight—with nothing in sight but blue sky and clouds and golden sunshine. It is a strange lonely feeling. The known world has vanished and there is nothing in the universe but one little aeroplane. My imagination gets out of control and I begin to wonder if the world is still there. Shall we find our way back to it again or are we doomed to wander about forever in this vast spacious universe—like some modern version of the Flying Dutchman?
When I mention these thoughts to my neighbour she looks at me pityingly and says all modern planes are equipped with instruments which show the pilot exactly where he is, so there is no need to worry.
Night falls suddenly, as is its habit in equatorial countries, the sun sinks into a bank of cloud and is gone. Now there is no more to see and the little window beside me acts as a mirror reflecting the lighted interior of the plane and its varied assortment of passengers.
Mrs. Tim Flies Home Page 1