Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 2

  “Poor Jane!” I exclaim.

  “But she didn’t care,” says Betty. “She said she would rather have a black mark than do gas-mask drill.”

  “Do you mind it?” I enquire anxiously.

  “No,” replies Betty. “At least not much. It’s a horrid chokey feeling, of course, but I just pretend I’m the man in the iron mask . . .”

  The small school, which Betty attends daily, is only about five minutes’ walk from Winfield, so Betty is permitted to go by herself. She gives me a last hug and marches off sturdily into the teeming rain, and I return to the dining room where Annie has started to clear away the breakfast.

  Annie has been with me for years and is a tremendous talker. She starts immediately and discusses the war news. Annie says that the war will be over quite soon now and the major will be back before I know where I am. . . . Cannot help feeling that Annie is a trifle too optimistic, but am comforted all the same, and repair to the kitchen in a cheerful frame of mind.

  Cheerful feelings are soon dissipated. The kitchen is extremely warm, but the moral atmosphere is at zero. Mrs. Fraser, my large and terrifying cook, is waiting for me with a grim smile. I enquire in trembling tones whether anything has gone wrong. Mrs. Fraser replies that that depends. Having long and bitter experience of domestic catastrophes I am prepared for the worst, and glance hastily round the kitchen, but can see nothing calculated to cause alarm or despondency; the stove is burning brightly and without smoke, the copper boiler has not burst, neither has the ceiling fallen. Thus reassured I am able to face Mrs. Fraser with more confidence and to enquire further into the nature of the trouble.

  Mrs. Fraser says that she has always been used to “good places” until she came here, places where the kitchen was properly furnished with everything necessary to hand. She wanted to make a cake today and what did she find? She found that there were no proper weights for the scales. How do I suppose she can weigh out the ingredients for her cake without proper weights?

  As I have lived all my married life in furnished houses, amongst other people’s belongings, I am neither surprised nor abashed to hear of this strange deficiency, and am about to soothe Mrs. Fraser by offering to go down to the ironmongers and buy a set of weights, when the kitchen door opens and Annie looks in with a beaming face. “It’s Major Morley,” she says, “only he’s a colonel now, and he said was it too early.”

  I immediately abandon Mrs. Fraser to her fate and rush into the drawing room, where I find Tony Morley standing in front of the fire, looking very smart and soldierly in a brand new uniform. I have not met Tony since we stayed with Mrs. Loudon at Avielochan and am delighted to see him again.

  Tony seems delighted too, “Hullo, Hester!” he says, shaking both my hands at once. “Here I am, back at the old game—a dugout. I had to look in and see you . . . hope it isn’t too early.”

  I assure him that it couldn’t be too early and ask where he has come from and what he is doing. Tony says he is in camp about two miles from Donford, and adds that they have given him the 4th Battalion to lick into shape.

  There is a tremendous lot to talk about, because I want to know all his news, and he wants to know mine. He asks about Tim, and about Betty, and whether I have seen Mrs. Loudon lately and then enquires after the Regiment. He was in the Regiment himself, of course, but retired because his father was ill and wanted him at home to look after the property.

  We sit down and chat. I explain that Herbert Carter is commanding the Depot, Lawrence Hardford is second in Command, and Tom Ledgard is adjutant.

  “Ledgard!” exclaims Tony in amazement. “Couldn’t they find somebody better than Ledgard? The fellow’s an absolute fool. . . . Is he married yet?”

  I cannot help smiling at this for Tom Ledgard is always complaining about his single state and urging his friends to provide him with a partner. Tony is also a bachelor, but shows little desire to change his condition. I reply to Tony’s question by assuring him that Captain Ledgard is not yet married, nor even engaged, but that Grace MacDougall has taken the matter in hand and is trying to find a suitable wife for him.

  Tony says it is to be hoped she will not succeed; Ledgard is the most devastating bore and he (Tony) would be profoundly sorry for any woman who had to live with him. “Fancy being tied to Ledgard for life!” says Tony in horrified tones. “Fancy seeing Ledgard’s lean yellow face across the breakfast table every morning!”

  Having thus disposed of Ledgard, we proceed to other matters of interest. Tony is so eager to hear Regimental news, that I begin to suspect he has found life pretty dull at Charters Towers and is glad to be back in harness again.

  We are still talking hard when Annie comes in and says to me in a mysterious whisper, “What about the weights?” Tony says, “Goodness, I never knew you had them in March! You had better give them a bob,” and with that he extracts a shilling from an inside pocket and holds it out to Annie.

  Annie looks at me in despair, and I explain to Tony that I must go and see what can be done.

  “But what’s the matter?” he enquires. “Can’t you give them a bob and tell them to go away?”

  “Who?” I ask in bewilderment.

  “The waits, of course,” he replies.

  “But there isn’t any, sir,” declares Annie. “That’s just the trouble, and she’s in the most awful wax because she can’t get the currants measured.”

  The misunderstanding is now cleared up and I am able to explain our difficulty. Tony says it’s far too wet for me to go to the town this morning, and anyhow he wants to talk to me. He says he will interview the cook himself and see what can be arranged. Annie and I do our best to persuade him not to, but without avail, for Tony is one of those masterful men who usually get their own way. We all repair to the kitchen (which fortunately is in apple-pie order) and Tony takes charge of the situation.

  “Good morning, Cook,” says Tony brightly. “I hear you want something weighed.”

  Mrs. Fraser is somewhat taken aback by the appearance in her kitchen of a real live colonel, armed to the teeth, but she pulls herself together and replies that nobody can weigh things without weights and that anyway she has never been used to working with old-fashioned balancing scales, but has always been provided with the kind that weigh things by themselves without fiddling little weights, which are bound to get lost.

  “But here are the weights,” says Tony.

  “Not the right ones,” replies Mrs. Fraser firmly. “Them weights are no use at all. I’m wanting to weigh out five ounces of flour for my cake . . . here’s a seven ounce weight and here’s a quarter pound and that’s all there is.”

  Tony looks at the weights for a moment and then announces that there is no difficulty at all in the matter, and that Mrs. Fraser can weigh out any amount she wants.

  “Not five ounces,” objects Mrs. Fraser in incredulous tones.

  “Five ounces is easy,” says Tony. “First we weigh out two lots of four ounces . . . that’s eight,” says Tony, pouring the flour onto a square of paper; “we put the eight ounces of flour on one side of the scale and the seven ounce weight on the other . . . then we remove one ounce.” He suits the action to the word and removes one ounce with a tablespoon. “There, it balances!” says Tony, with the air of a conjurer who has produced a rabbit out of a hat. “We now have seven ounces of flour on the scale and one ounce in the tablespoon, and all we have to do is to empty the seven ounces back into the bag, weigh out four ounces and add the ounce in the tablespoon, which makes five.”

  Annie and I are lost in admiration of Tony’s cleverness, and even the dour Mrs. Fraser is impressed.

  Tony now offers to weigh out all the ingredients for the cake, but Mrs. Fraser has grasped the principle and says she can manage now, and she proceeds to demonstrate how she can weigh out three times one ounce of currants. Tony says that’s a very roundabout way of doing it, she can put the seven ounce weight on one side of the scale and the four ounce on the other and make up the four ounce we
ight with the currants, which will give her three ounces straight off. He plays about with the weights for some time, showing how various amounts of currants can be weighed with the least possible trouble until at last Mrs. Fraser loses patience with him and says he had better go back to the drawing room where he belongs and let her get on with her work.

  We return to the drawing room and Tony says, “That’s gratitude, Hester,” in rather a dejected tone of voice.

  SATURDAY 2ND MARCH

  Receive a letter from Bryan who is at a preparatory school in Buckinghamshire. He says:

  “My dear Mum, How are you getting on? I bet Dad will give the Germans beans. There was an air raid signal and Old Parker made us go down to the seller and then there was not an air raid after all, but we missed Latin so I was not sorry I can tell you and very few people were sorry. My marks are not so good this weak but I got 2 more for French than Edgeburton. Need I go on learning German because it is a horrid langwidge anyhow, but you will have to write to old Parker and tell him because he would not beleive me. How am I coming home I mean am I coming home by train or how, you choose. Can I have 2 bob because Wonky is leaving and all the people are giving her a present and I have not got any money left except sixpence which is not ennough and anyhow I owe fourpence of it to Edgeburton. Did Dad take his sword? Edgeburton’s father left it behind on purpose because you do not get near ennough for swords. Edgeburton’s father is in the imagino line so why can’t I know where my father is? Some of the people have got colds but mine is better. We found a baby pluvver and it was half dead so we brought it back and put it in a barskit near the hot pipes and we gave it some bread and milk and we thought it was O.K. but when We came down in the morning it was dead. Mr. Fane says it is very difficult to reer wild birds in capptivity so it would have died anyhow. Love from Bryan.

  “P.S. Its a pitty I am not 9 years older because the war will be over and I dont suppose I will ever have a chance of fighting the Germans which is a pitty because it would be grand fun.”

  Grace arrives immediately after breakfast and is shown into the drawing room, where I am hard at work answering Bryan’s letter, and trying to decide whether or not he is to continue his study of the German language. Grace walks in with an air of tragedy and announces that she has not slept a wink for three nights. I try to appear suitably shocked and horrified, but find it somewhat difficult, because Grace looks so extremely fit and fresh that the statement is hard to believe.

  “It’s quite true,” says Grace earnestly. “I lay awake for at least an hour thinking about you and wishing I had not said it.”

  “Said what?” I enquire in amazement.

  “You needn’t pretend,” says Grace, shaking her head gravely. “You needn’t pretend you didn’t hear what I said. It was simply beastly of me after all you’ve done for me . . . and just because you didn’t want to come to dinner and help me with the balloon man. . . . I told Jack and he said I had better come and apologise.”

  I realise now what it is all about and am able to assure Grace quite truthfully that I have never given her words a thought. She looks a little taken aback at this, and says, “That’s all right, then”; but apparently it is not all right, but very much all wrong, and I become aware that Grace is annoyed with me for not being upset. It is all extremely silly, and at last I lose patience with her and take her by the shoulders and shake her gently and tell her not to be a goose. She didn’t mean to be unkind, and therefore her casual words were nothing to bother about, and she knows quite well that we are the best of friends and understand each other’s ways.

  Grace smiles and agrees that of course we are and do, and adds that I am a perfect saint to bear with her.

  We chat for a little about various matters and I show her Bryan’s letter, of which I am somewhat proud. Grace says the letter is perfectly sweet and she is looking forward to the time when Ian will write letters to her from his prep. school. She is quite sure that Ian will write beautiful letters. Good handwriting is so important. She is going to make a special point and have Ian taught to write well.

  I remove Bryan’s scrawl from her clutches and reply that of course she should do so, and that Bryan used to write much better (his handwriting has degenerated in the most extraordinary way) and his spelling is disgraceful for his age, but what really matters to me is the gist of his letters: they are full of news and so like himself that they bring Bryan before my eyes so vividly that I could weep.

  Grace says, “Darling! There I go again. I didn’t mean to be catty a bit . . . I do really and truly think it’s a sweet letter. It’s just because I say things without thinking, and because I’m thinking so much about Ian just now . . . and if Ian is as nice as Bryan when he is eleven, I shall be perfectly satisfied.”

  This is indeed amende honorable and I am propitiated.

  Grace takes the letter again and reads it more carefully, and repeats that it really sweet. She likes the bit about the “pluvver”, because it shows that boys are not naturally cruel nowadays. She thinks this fact augurs well for peace in the Future.

  I agree somewhat doubtfully and forbear to draw her attention to Bryan’s postscript.

  Grace now becomes very serious and says isn’t the war horrible, and do I think it is right for her to bring an Innocent Child into the World when the World is in this terrible condition. She was talking to Jack about it last night, but Jack did not seem to understand. As the innocent child is due to arrive in the world at any moment I feel that it is too late for anything to be done about it, and that he (or possibly she) will just have to make the best of it. Grace says that I don’t seem to understand either. Sometimes she feels as if she couldn’t bear the wickedness of it all another minute. . . . Her eyes are full of tears and I realise that she must be comforted, so I proceed to explain my own particular method of “carrying on”. None of us could bear the war if we allowed ourselves to brood upon the wickedness of it and the misery it has entailed, so the only thing to do is not to allow oneself to think about it seriously, but just to skitter about on the surface of life like a water beetle. In this way one can carry on and do one’s bit and remain moderately cheerful.

  Grace says, “That seems rather a cowardly way of bearing things.”

  I agree that it may be cowardly, but it is the only way for me. It would do no good if I were to think seriously about the war, and it would do me a lot of harm; and I add that my family would suffer if I became a raving lunatic.

  Grace looks thoughtful and says there’s something in it. She wondered how I was able to behave in my usual cheerful manner and now she understands.

  TUESDAY 5TH MARCH

  A letter arrives from Tim. I pounce upon it with delight and tear it open, for this is his first letter from overseas. He says that he has arrived safely “Somewhere in France” and has been allotted a comfortable billet. “The Battalion is in good fettle”; continues Tim, “all the men fit and cheerful. Old Frankie is in tremendous form. He throws his weight about a good deal, but I must say he Gets Things Done. It is quite amazing, because he used to be such an old woman, terrified of the Powers That Be, and unwilling to shoulder responsibility. Everyone thought he would be quite hopeless to command the Battalion in war. It just shows that you never can tell. The old boy was quite nice to me when I arrived—everyone was, really, and it was good to see Preston again. We hadn’t met since that time at Cawnpore. I got a parcel from Aunt Ethel containing unwearable socks and unsmokable cigarettes—fortunately my batman will wear or smoke anything. I have written to Aunt E. thanking her as warmly as I am able. If you have time you might go and see Mrs. Craven and tell her that I saw Craven in hospital. He had appendicitis, but has been operated on and is doing splendidly. He is being promoted and will make an excellent R.S.M. You can tell Mrs. C. if you like.”

  I decide to go down to the Barracks and see Mrs. Craven at once. She is an old friend—we have followed the drum together for years—and it is always pleasant to be the bearer of good news. Mrs. Crave
n’s quarters are at the end of the row and I pass the time of day with several other women as I go along. They are all anxious for news of the Battalion. Mrs. Craven is busy dressmaking. I can hear her sewing machine buzzing as I knock on her door. She welcomes me warmly and is delighted at my news. Her kitchen is not as neat as usual and she apologises for “the bits and snippets” which are strewed about and explains that her daughter is being married on Tuesday, and that she is making herself a dress to wear at the ceremony. Am amazed to hear that Miriam is old enough to be married—I have not seen her for some time, but my recollection of her as a small peaky child with pigtails is perfectly clear—but Mrs. Craven says, “Aweel, she was set on it.”

  This speech sounds a trifle lukewarm and I enquire whether Mrs. Craven is pleased with the match.

  She replies, “Och, aye, he’s nice enough.”

  “Is everything all right?” I ask, doubtfully.

  “Och, aye,” says Mrs. Craven.

  In spite of her words I have a strong feeling that everything is not all right. “You aren’t worrying about your husband, are you?” I enquire. “He’s getting on splendidly—Major Christie says so.”

  “Na, na,” says Mrs. Craven. “I’m not worrying aboot him. He aye falls on his feet, does John. I’m real pleased he’s got his promotion too.”

  “Well, what are you worrying about? Is there anything that I can do about it?”

  “Och, it’s just naething.”

  “Is it something about the wedding?”

  “Na, na, we’ve fixed everything fine. We’ve fixed aboot the cake and all. It’s all fixed.”

  “That’s splendid!”

  “Aye, and she’s got a real nice dress. It’s yon new colour, a sort o’ greeny blue wi’ a white collar on it.”

  “Lovely!”

  “Aye, she looks real nice in it.”