Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  Betty says, “I know this is England but you will have a reel, won’t you? And can we ask Susan Morven?”

  Tony says, “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” and gets into his car and drives away.

  In spite of all these activities I have a feeling that we are marking time and that something is going to happen. It is an unpleasant sort of feeling; like a cloud in the blue sky of our pleasant carefree existence. I have tried to track down the cause of my unease but without much success. Tim’s letters are rather short and scrappy, but they come regularly and he seems well, so probably it is just that he is busy . . . and he has said no more about taking on The Small House for the winter so I have ceased to worry about that. The Small House is ideal in every way, our domestic arrangements are working satisfactorily and the young people are happy. I make up my mind that I have nothing whatever to worry about, so it is extremely silly to worry, but in spite of my good resolutions the feeling that Something is going to Happen continues to haunt me. In the evening, when I go up to see Betty in bed and say good night to her I mention it to her.

  “Lots of things are going to happen,” says Betty. “There’s Susan’s picnic to the Lion’s Gorge and there’s Uncle Tony’s dance and then Bryan and I are going to London for our visit to Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary. These holidays are the best ever.”

  “Yes, of course,” I agree; for what is the good of worrying Betty by telling her that my feeling about the Something is an unpleasant one?

  “About my dress,” continues Betty, sitting up in bed with her arms round her knees and looking at me anxiously. “I’ve nothing but my white school-frock, which would look frightfully silly at a proper, grown-up dance.”

  This is true and I agree that she must have a new dress for the dance at Charters Towers.

  Betty says she thinks black velvet would be nice, or perhaps black brocade, and of course it must be a proper evening-dress with straps over the shoulders and a long full skirt. She has seen a double rope of pearls—not real ones of course—in the draper’s shop in the village and they only cost five shillings.

  The idea of my daughter thus attired is horrifying—so horrifying that it causes me no amusement—and I object most strongly to her suggestions.

  “But I want a black dress!” she exclaims. “I’ve always wanted a black dress. It would make me look thinner and older.”

  “It would be most unsuitable.”

  “Mummy, please,” says Betty. “Please let me. I’m the one who’s going to wear it.”

  “I would have to see you in it.”

  “Mummy, listen—”

  But I refuse to listen and after some argument I dig my heels in firmly and tell Betty that I will choose the dress; she can either wear it or her school-frock or, if neither pleases her, she can stay at home.

  Betty is quite taken aback at this unwonted cruelty and says meekly that she is sure it will be nice; and—the point being settled—I write off to Harrods for some suitable frocks to be sent on approval.

  Monday, 6th August

  This is the day appointed by Susan for her picnic to the Lion’s Gorge. The morning is not propitious but by the afternoon the clouds have cleared and the sun is shining. Betty and I travel to the rendezvous by bus, the boys having gone ahead on Perry’s motor bicycle.

  Much has been said about the Lion’s Gorge and I must confess to a slight feeling of disappointment when it bursts upon my gaze. There are woods and paths and there are rocks with variegated heaths planted among them; a little river wanders out of the woods and into a pretty pool overhung by willows. It is very pretty of course but I had expected something grander and wilder.

  Betty knows more about the arrangements than I do. “Oh, it isn’t here,” she says. “There’s a waterfall higher up. That’s where we’re going to have the picnic.”

  Susan has arrived already; her little car is parked by the roadside, so also is Perry’s bike, and it behoves Betty and me to climb the path by the stream and look for them. I have some slight anxiety as to whether we shall find them, for there are several paths winding in different directions, but Betty reassures me; she and Susan have both had Guide Training and a trail has been left for us to follow.

  We are just starting on our quest when another car drives up and from it descends the Charters Tower party which consists of Tony, an elderly woman, and a girl.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Christie!” exclaims the elderly woman, advancing with a smile. “It’s ages since we met, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ve forgotten me!”

  Obviously this is Tony’s sister, Freda Winthrop, and of course I am obliged to say I remember her quite well and to greet her in a friendly manner; but the fact is she has changed so much that I should never have known her. The last time I saw Mrs. Winthrop she seemed little older than myself and the impression left upon my mind was of an exceedingly gay and giddy young woman with gorgeous clothes. I remember also that she behaved in a gay and giddy fashion with a handsome Naval Officer. Can this really be the same woman: this woman with the lined and haggard face, the grey and wispy hair? My consternation on beholding Tony’s sister is difficult to hide and, sad to say, it is not altogether sympathetic. I have an uncomfortable feeling that if the years have done this dreadful thing to Freda Winthrop they must have taken their toll of me.

  “And this is Diana,” says Mrs. Winthrop, indicating her daughter who is standing behind her on the path.

  Diana is older than Betty; she is a fat girl with a pretty complexion but, apart from her milk and roses, has little to recommend her. She seems uninterested in the proceedings and shows no pleasure at all at making our acquaintance.

  By this time Tony has parked his car and we all set oft together, Betty leading and rejoicing aloud at the various signs which have been made by Susan to guide our footsteps in the right way. We cross a rustic bridge and take a path which ascends steeply between rocks and trees. Mrs. Winthrop says several times she thinks this would be an ideal place to have tea, but as no hostess nor any tea is visible her suggestions fall on deaf ears.

  The party thins out as we ascend; Betty’s excitement in following the trail lends wings to her feet and the Winthrops lag behind. Tony and I endeavour to keep in touch with both van and rear (this is essential for the Winthrops will get lost if we abandon them and Betty alone can lead us to the place appointed for tea); the woods resound with Tony’s shouts to his sister and niece to come on, and hurry up, and with my shouts to my daughter to wait for us.

  The path becomes steeper and more stony, it winds hither and thither amongst the trees. I am beginning to wonder if Betty has led us astray when we reach an open space carpeted with green mossy grass. There are the remains of a house here—a heap of large stones and a patch of nettles—beyond the ground slopes to the stream which prattles over a series of small cascades. At one side of the dell, beneath the shade of an oak, a large white cloth has been laid upon the ground and Susan, Perry, Bryan and Edmond Alston are busily engaged unpacking two large baskets.

  “Here you are!” cries Susan waving joyfully. “Come and help! We’ve got to make a fire.”

  Everybody now starts talking at once; all except Mrs. Winthrop and her fat daughter who sink down upon a mossy bank with groans of fatigue.

  The party is still incomplete for Anne Carlyle has been bidden and has not yet appeared. Susan seems worried about her and says she hopes Miss Carlyle is not lost in the woods. She thought Miss Carlyle was coming in the two o’clock bus and that she would join our party. If she comes in the later bus she will not know where we are. Somebody will have to go down and meet her. Meanwhile, says our hostess, there are sticks to be collected and a fireplace to be constructed. Who wants to do what?

  After some argument the younger members of the party vanish into the woods to collect sticks while Tony and I set to work to make a fireplace with some of the tumbled stones.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Hester?” asks Tony.

  I reply in the affirmative. Picnics amuse me, especial
ly picnics with proper fires. Vacuum flasks are extremely useful, and what we should do without them I cannot imagine, but a fire is more fun.

  “Yes, if it burns,” agrees Tony. “Do you remember a picnic at Loch an Darroch? It was when you were staying at Avielochan with Mrs. Loudon.”

  Of course I remember it, and I remember exploring the great ruined castle of the MacArbins and how we thought we saw a ghost. The scene comes back to my mind very clearly; there were towering cliffs and pine woods and a huge loch which looked cold and green. It was wild and grand and awe-inspiring—quite unlike this English beauty spot.

  “This place is like a lion with a collar on,” I remark as I step back and survey our fireplace with satisfaction.

  “You do say the oddest things!” exclaims Tony. “But I know what you mean. This place was wild once—it was meant to be wild—but they’ve tamed it by tidying it up, making paths and planting heaths amongst the rocks. Yes, it’s a tamed lion. Poor brute!” he adds, taking out his handkerchief and mopping his brow.

  “You look hot, Tony,” says Mrs. Winthrop, who has now recovered from her climb.

  Tony scowls but makes no reply and I am not surprised; when one feels hot it is most annoying to be told that one looks it.

  “Why is it called the Lion’s Gorge?” I enquire, changing the subject.

  “The lion is higher up,” replies Tony. “There’s a limestone cliff which is supposed to resemble the head of a lion and I must say it does bear a sort of resemblance to the King of Beasts. The stream issues from the lion’s mouth and falls into a deep pool beneath the lion’s paws. The interesting thing about it is that the stream has a subterranean source and runs underground before it emerges from its tunnel. My cousin and I explored it once when we were boys. We did it in style with torches and a rope and we both pretended it was tremendous fun, but I was simply terrified. There’s something horribly sinister about caves with water running through them—splashing and dripping,” says Tony with a shudder. “There were bats and things; it was cold and dank and the walls of the little tunnel were slimy. We didn’t penetrate very far—not more than a few hundred yards—and then we came to a huge, deep pool and had to turn back. How thankful I was to emerge into the good wholesome light of day! Later on Ralph had another try with one of the under-gardeners, they took a collapsible dinghy and managed to go in a good bit further. I absolutely refused to have anything to do with the second expedition, the first one was quite enough for me.”

  “Ralph was very brave,” says Mrs. Winthrop.

  This statement annoys me intensely. The unknown Ralph may have been as brave as a lion but Tony is no coward; his war record is sufficient indication of his courage . . . but of course it is no use saying anything so I hold my tongue.

  The young people drift back in couples bearing bundles of wood for the fire; Betty and Perry arrive first, then Susan and Edmond. The fire is started and the kettle is beginning to sing merrily when Bryan staggers in with two enormous branches.

  There is still no sign of Anne Carlyle and Edmond very nobly says he will go down and find her. Several others offer to go, though not very enthusiastically, and the matter is being debated when Anne suddenly appears. She is quite cool and not in the least exhausted by the steep climb; when asked how she found her way, she replies that although she is too old to have been a Guide herself she started a company in school and therefore knows a good deal about the mysteries of Guiding.

  Although I am very fond of Anne I have a feeling that Susan has made a mistake in asking her to the picnic and this feeling is confirmed into a certainty before many minutes have passed. Poor Anne is completely out of place and has nothing in common with any of her companions (she is shy of Tony and his sister and the young people are shy of her); Susan and I, the only two who know her intimately, make valiant efforts to draw her into the conversation but without success. Anne has plenty to say upon subjects which interest her but she has no “small talk.”

  Quite soon the kettle boils and we all settle down to an excellent meal, but we settle down in a haphazard manner which is a little unfortunate. There are various interesting undercurrents to observe in this picnic party: for instance Tony is endeavouring to talk to Edmond, who is sitting next to him, but most of Edmond’s attention is engaged elsewhere. Mrs. Winthrop has suddenly discovered that Perry is the grandson of a baronet and pulling herself together becomes quite animated. She is discussing skiing at Wengen and is doing her best to “bring out” Diana and make her take part in the conversation. Betty is perfectly happy sitting next to Susan, chattering like a magpie and bounding up to fetch the kettle and fill the tea-pot or bring a knife to cut the cake . . . and Bryan, finding himself next to Anne Carlyle, tries to talk to her, then gives it up and concentrates on the sandwiches.

  When everybody has eaten their fill it is decided that the Lion must be visited and all the young people start off at once. Mrs. Winthrop says she has seen it before and will stay here and rest. She advises me to do likewise but Tony’s description of the Lion has fired my ardour and I announce that I must see him. Tony is anxious to renew his acquaintance with the creature so we set off together. Anne and Mrs. Winthrop—a curiously ill-assorted couple—are left amongst the remains of the feast.

  “Young Alston is a bit broody, isn’t he?” says Tony as we climb the path. “Susan is an attractive creature but I don’t think she’s interested in the love-sick swain.”

  “I like Edmond,” I reply.

  “I never said I didn’t,” points out Tony.

  “You implied it. Honestly, Tony, you mustn’t judge Edmond by his behaviour today. He’s a worthwhile person. The fact is—”

  “The fact is our young friend is suffering from a severe attack of infatuation, and few men look their best under these circumstances. How unlike the male bird!” says Tony gravely. “The male bird puts on his brightest feathers to attract his chosen mate, displays himself to the best advantage and sings his sweetest songs. The male of the human species—as typified in our poor young friend—sits and gapes in a foolish manner and ties himself into knots. Our poor young friend is in a state of nervous tension and what he needs is a course of the larger mammals.”

  “A course of the larger mammals!” I echo in surprise.

  “Alas!” says Tony sadly. “How your education has been neglected! Your friend Miss Carlyle would have understood the allusion.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “So I perceive. It would spoil the whole thing to explain.”

  “Spoil the whole thing immediately, Tony.”

  With feigned reluctance Tony explains that an eminent doctor in The Way of All Flesh prescribed a course of the larger mammals for one of his patients who was suffering from nervous prostration. “‘Let him go to their house twice a week for a fortnight and stay with the hippopotamus, the rhinoceros and the elephants . . . the larger carnivora are unsympathetic . . . but with the elephants and the pig tribes generally he should mix, just now, as freely as possible.’ It goes something like that,” says Tony smiling.

  “There’s a good deal in it,” I reply. “Edmond would be very much better staying in a house with a hippopotamus than with his mother. It would be more restful for his nerves.”

  We have not gone far when we come upon Diana Winthrop sitting by herself upon a fallen tree.

  “Hullo!” exclaims Tony. “Where are the others?”

  “They went on,” she replies. “It’s too hot for climbing. I said I’d wait till they came back.”

  Tony looks at his niece with an expression of disgust which almost makes me laugh, but he says nothing and we pass her and walk on.

  “Perhaps she’s delicate . . .” I begin in a low voice.

  “Delicate!” he exclaims. “She’s just lazy, that’s all. Did you ever see such an uninteresting lump of a girl? Freda is a good deal to blame of course. Freda is sickening with her—spoils and pampers her and talks all the time about ‘Diana’s admirers.’ Admirers! Who admires a
lump? Oh, it’s all very well for you to laugh,” says Tony ruefully. “She isn’t your niece. You aren’t being badgered all the time to take Diana to Ascot or Henley or to some wretched dance . . . but I’m blowed if I will!”

  “It’s rather unkind of you.”

  “I’ve always disliked dull women,” replies Tony firmly. “I told Freda her daughter was dull. Perhaps you noticed that Freda is rather annoyed with me?”

  “But you’re giving a dance for Diana!”

  “The dance is for Betty,” he replies.

  We have now arrived at the cliff and find the rest of the party looking at it with interest and discussing whether or not it resembles the head of a lion. For my part I think it does. A mane of rough grass hangs over the lion’s eyes; the stream gushes forth from his mouth and falls with a splashing sound into the pool below. All round there are little ferns growing in the crevices which give the lion’s face a green and hairy appearance.

  Betty, when she sees us, rushes at Tony excitedly and takes him by the arm. “Where does the stream come from? You know everything,” she declares.

  I am amused to see that Tony is pleased and flattered by this tribute; he teases her a little (saying that this is the rock that Moses struck and asking her if she thinks the lion’s mouth is like an old-fashioned bath-tap); but on the way down he is beguiled by Betty into giving her an account of his explorations and a description of the underground ramifications of the stream. Betty hangs upon his arm and listens entranced and, as I see them together, I feel sad to think that Tony has not married and had children of his own.

  When we reach the scene of the feast we discover that Anne has gone home but Mrs. Winthrop and her daughter are waiting for us and showing every sign of impatience. I watch Mrs. Winthrop’s face when Tony and Betty appear and my surmise that she will not be pleased is fully justified.

  Tuesday, 7th August

  I announce at breakfast that Grace MacDougall is coming over from Biddington for the day and bringing her twin sons, and I add that I expect my three young friends to entertain the twins.