Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Read online

  “Clothes . . .” I murmur, clutching at a straw. “I don’t see how—”

  “Do what you can about clothes,” says Miss Lena. “We have some second-hand garments—perfectly good, of course—so we shall be able to help in that way, but it would be nice if you could spare enough coupons for a reasonably complete outfit—nice for Betty, I mean.”

  “Don’t worry too much about clothes,” says Miss Humble firmly.

  Betty’s fate is sealed.

  WEDNESDAY, 20TH FEBRUARY

  Larder completely empty this morning (except for a very small bone which Annie says she will boil for soup). This necessitates an expedition to the shops so I leave Annie to turn out the drawing room—a task in which I had intended to take part—and sally forth to see what I can find. My expedition is satisfactory, by present-day standards, and I return triumphantly with a loaf, a pound of sausages, three oranges and two very small haddocks. Grace is waiting for me and has brought me three eggs, so we are now stocked for a prolonged siege and can get on comfortably with the cleaning.

  I feel a little dubious about accepting the eggs from Grace, the gift being so munificent, but Grace says, “Take them and be thankful, but don’t ask where I got them, that’s all.”

  Reply that I should not dream of making such an unnecessary enquiry.

  This being settled Grace sits down on the arm of the sofa and says she intended to come and see me yesterday afternoon but she had to take the twins to the dentist for their biannual inspection. She wanted to ask me if I listened to the talk on Sunday night. “You should have listened,” says Grace. “It was most interesting—all about how kind and brotherly the Russians are.”

  “Are they?” I enquire.

  Grace says she was surprised, too. She has never been to Russia, nor does she know any Russians, so the only way she can judge them is by their actions.

  “Quite a good way!” I suggest.

  Grace says it’s rather puzzling. The speaker has just returned from Russia and he says they are a most delightful people, they spend their time singing and dancing, they drink vodka and eat smoked salmon and exude brotherly love at every pore. It sounded lovely, says Grace, and of course he must know, but she finds it a little difficult to reconcile this account of them with their actions. She pauses for breath and then continues, “I mean if you went round Donford accusing me of being a mischief-maker, trying to put people against me, I shouldn’t put down your activities to sisterly affection. In fact I should be inclined to think it a little unfriendly.”

  “Unreasonable of you, Grace.”

  “I think it’s all rather frightening,” declares Grace, looking at me with large serious eyes. “Yes, frightening . . . and if there ever should be another war I should like someone to kill me before it starts and bury me very, very deeply in the ground, because—to tell you the truth—I just . . . simply . . . couldn’t . . . bear it.”

  We are silent for a few moments.

  “However,” says Grace, pulling herself together with a visible effort. “However I didn’t come here to cry ‘Bogey, bogey!’ I came to ask you about your visit to Dothegirls Hill.”

  “It’s perfect,” I reply in tepid accents.

  “They do the girls well?”

  “Yes, the food is good and the education leaves nothing to be desired.”

  “The girls are well fed and well dinned.”

  “Really, Grace—”

  “I know,” says Grace repentantly. “I’m a bit upset, that’s what’s the matter. Tell me all about it, Hester.”

  I tell her all about Dinwell Hall, and all about the Misses Humble, and all about the interesting psychological data revealed by their private sitting room. Grace listens and nods—she is particularly struck with the text and murmurs with a thoughtful air that it is a new one on her.

  “‘Who hath believed our report,’” says Grace. “Poor old things! What a life! It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

  The Misses Humble did not strike me as pathetic—not in the least—and I assure Grace that she need waste no sympathy upon them. They are neither poor nor old, but well-off and only middle-aged, and to all appearances perfectly happy; and as a matter of fact (I assure Grace) I have never seen two pegs in more comfortably fitting holes.

  “Holes!” exclaims Grace. “That reminds me. I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. It was yesterday when I was taking the boys to the dentist. Ian was dancing along, full of the joy of life, but Alec seemed terribly depressed and listless. I was rather surprised because they’re usually in the same sort of mood; I mean they’re usually both cheerful or both broody. Then Ian said, ‘I don’t mind going to the dentist. I haven’t got any holes in my teeth. Alec’s got a hole. It hurts when he eats sweets. You’ve got a hole, Alec.’ ‘I think so,’ said Alec in a sad voice. Then his face brightened and he added, ‘But perhaps Mr. Barnes won’t find it.’”

  Grace’s stories about her twins are often rather silly, but I like this one.

  WEDNESDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY

  After nearly ten days of complete chaos, order has emerged; everything is settled and I am leaving Winfield tomorrow, spending the night in Edinburgh and taking up my appointment on Friday. It is true that Winfield is ours until the end of March but the Fates have conspired to hasten our departure. Miss Clutterbuck wants me immediately and has agreed to take Annie as second housemaid and pay her a good wage, so Annie has gone to her sister for a holiday and will come to Tocher House later. Betty has gone to Dinwell Hall, taking with her a trunkful of garments for which Annie and I have surrendered every coupon we possessed. In addition to all these arrangements and activities I have had to cope with a shower of cables from Tim, urging me to look before I leap and beseeching me to go to Cobstead or to Mrs. Loudon or to take rooms in Donford; and I have been obliged to reply at length explaining my actions. I have interviewed the house agent and the painter; I have toiled through the inventory of Winfield and endeavoured to replace broken or missing china and worn-out pots and pans; Annie and I together have cleaned and washed and polished, turned out cupboards, packed and tied up large bundles for the Jumble Sale. Our labours were complicated and interrupted by visits from various friends in Donford who made a habit of dropping in at the most inconvenient moments to say good-bye. One good thing about all this hurry and confusion is that I have had little time to think, for now that the time has come to leave Donford I find I have become very fond of it. We have been here all through the war, we have shared in Donford’s wartime activities, shared in its anxieties, in its privations and its victory celebrations. Better to leave quickly rather than brood over our departure for another month.

  Today I am alone in the house. I wander about like a lost spirit—for there is nothing left to do. I wander amongst corded boxes and packing cases and although I am extremely weary it is impossible to rest.

  At lunchtime Grace comes in, accompanied by the twins, and discovers me eating bread and cheese in the kitchen.

  “Hester!” exclaims Grace in horrified tones. “Why didn’t you come to lunch with me?”

  “Too tired,” I murmur. “Too fed-up. Besides bread and cheese and coffee is a perfectly good meal.”

  “It’s letting down the flag,” says Grace reproachfully. “It’s back-sliding—that’s what it is. I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Hester. Think of the men who change for dinner every night on desert islands!”

  “I’ve never really believed in them,” I reply, helping myself to another wedge of cheese. “And anyhow, I’ve slid. I’m a displaced person.”

  “Displaced person!” cries Grace. “What nonsense, Hester! You’ve got a job. If you don’t like it you can come and stay with me—or go to Cobstead. Displaced person my foot!”

  Grace is doing me good as she always does. Sometimes she annoys me considerably but that does me good, too. It is not the least of my regrets in leaving Donford to be leaving Grace.

  “Are you going straight to Tocher House tomorrow?” inquires Grace.r />
  Reply that I am going to Edinburgh tomorrow to stay the night with Pinkie Loudon and do some necessary shopping before taking up my appointment on Friday.

  Grace says, “Pinkie!” in scornful tones . . . for, most regrettably, Grace does not like Pinkie and never has. It always seems odd when two people, whom one likes enormously, show marked antipathy to one another, and the case of Grace and Pinkie is a case in point. Pinkie is a dear, completely natural and unspoilt. When she stayed with us for nearly two years, she was a delightful addition to the family, helping me in all sorts of ways and keeping me cheerful company while Tim was in France. And we were happy when she met Guthrie Loudon (the son of our old friend Mrs. Loudon of Avielochan) and became engaged to him.

  “I suppose she’s married, now,” says Grace after a short pause.

  “Yes, they’re married now. Guthrie’s ship is at Rosyth so they’ve taken a little flat in Edinburgh. It will be fun to see Pinkie again.”

  “I don’t know how you can be bothered with the child,” says Grace impatiently.

  “I don’t know why you dislike her,” I retort.

  “She’s such a little wretch. She led you a fine life when she was staying with you . . . first she had all the subalterns dancing attendance on her, and then she carried on with those Polish officers.”

  “It was all quite innocent, Grace. As a matter of fact Pinkie can’t help it; she’s perfectly lovely to look at and men just—”

  “I don’t admire her at all,” snaps Grace. “I can’t stand that big, bouncing, blonde type of girl.”

  “A little unfair,” I murmur with a smile. “Just a little unworthy of you, Grace.”

  But Grace is not listening. She glances at her own reflection in the kitchen mirror and obviously admires what she sees. (Her own mat complexion and dark curls and the slim elegance of her own figure are more to her taste than Pinkie’s pink and gold charms.)

  “Oh yes, you’re beautiful, too,” I tell her, trying to look as solemn as an owl.

  During the foregoing conversation the two little boys have been wandering round the kitchen poking their noses into everything like a couple of strange dogs, but now they have finished exploring and are ready to talk.

  “Aunt Hester’s like Old Mother Hubbard,” says Ian, the elder, in conversational tones.

  “That’s rude, Ian,” admonished Grace.

  “’Tisn’t rude, it’s true,” declares Alec. “The cupboard was bare and so the poor dog got none.”

  “Aunt Hester is going away,” explains Grace. “She took everything out of the cupboard and packed it. Besides, she hasn’t got a dog. You know that, don’t you.”

  “What about the mice?” enquires Ian. “What will the mice do?”

  “The poor little mice!” cries Alec in pathetic accents. “No cheese, no nothing for the poor little darling mice!”

  Grace murmurs, “So tender-hearted,” and looks at her offspring with an adoring smile which annoys me excessively.

  “The poor little darling mice will starve to death,” I remark in a brutal manner.

  “Oh no!” cries Grace. “Aunt Hester is only joking. The dear little mice will go next door for their dinners.”

  “I know what to do,” says Alec brightly. “If Aunt Hester leaves a teeny piece of cheese we could put it in the Clipboard for the mice to eat.”

  “We could poison it,” cries Ian excitedly. “Alec, we could poison it.”

  “Oh yes!” cries Alec, hopping about with glee. “Do let’s poison it. Then Ian and me could come in on our way home from school—”

  “And sweep them up,” cries Ian, making sweeping gestures. “We could sweep up dozens and dozens of dead mice all over the floor . . . and bury them.”

  “So tender-hearted!” I murmur.

  “But, darlings,” says Grace earnestly. “Listen to Mummy I minute. You wouldn’t like to see the poor little mice, all dead.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” declares Alec. “I saw a dead cat, yesterday.”

  “You didn’t,” says Ian indignantly. “I saw it first and it was only a kitten.”

  “It was nearly a cat,” objects Alec. “I believe it would have been a cat if it had lived a week longer.”

  “Poor little thing,” says Grace. “I expect you were sorry about it, weren’t you?”

  “Not awfully,” says Alec truthfully.

  “We didn’t know it, you see,” explains Ian. “It might have been a horrid kitten for all we knew.”

  “It was a horrid kitten,” says Alec in reminiscent tones. “It had been dead for a long time. It was all covered with—”

  “Alec!” says Grace firmly. “Alec, I want you to say a poem to Aunt Hester—the one you learnt at school. Aunt Hester is going away tomorrow and you won’t see her again for a long time. You know that sweet little poem about the children playing in the garden. You’ll do it to please Mummy, won’t you?”

  Alec says he won’t, and I don’t blame him.

  “But I will,” says Ian with a seraphic smile. “I’ll say a sweet little poem for Aunt Hester. It’s about some children playing near a stream.”

  “The one Uncle Tubby taught us,” says Alec, giggling. “Oh yes, Ian. I’ll say it too.”

  “I’ll say it myself—”

  “No, together. Please, Ian.”

  “Say it together, darlings,” says Grace fondly.

  They stand up together, hand in hand—two lovely little boys with dark hair, blue eyes, and pink and white complexions, two lovely little boys, so alike that one can hardly tell them apart except that Alec, the younger, is slightly taller and sturdier than his brother. Grace beams on them, of course, and in all fairness I must admit she has reason to be proud of their appearance.

  “Go on, darlings,” says Grace. “Aunt Hester and Mummy are listening.”

  Thus adjured the twins open their dear little mouths and say the poem in unison—the sweet little poem that Uncle Tubby taught them:

  “‘Three little children were playing near a stream,

  Mummy heard them shouting, Mummy heard them scream;

  Mummy picked them up and threw them in the water

  (First her little sons and then her only daughter),

  Murmuring so sweetly as she drowned the third,

  ‘Mummy’s little darlings should be seen, not heard.’”

  THURSDAY, 28TH FEBRUARY

  When I find myself actually in the train on the way to Edinburgh, with all my luggage complete, I am not only surprised but slightly smug at my cleverness. I pull up the window, sit back in my seat and review the situation. Here am I suspended between two worlds, the known world of Donford and the unknown world of Tocher House. It is slightly alarming, of course, for I have never before done anything like this on my own responsibility, but there is a curious elation in my bosom; I feel brave and capable and optimistic. I feel free. For the moment I have no responsibilities—not one. I have sloughed them as a snake its skin; husband, house and children—not to speak of the various committees and social duties connected with the regiment—are all shed and for today at least I am my own woman. Today I am myself, Hester Christie, and the freedom of the world is mine. I am aware, of course, that this lens of freedom may turn into forlorn despondency, home-sickness may set in and make me yearn for my chains, but just for the moment all is well and the sun is shining.

  Pinkie meets me at the station. I have not set eyes on her for months, but I am delighted to see she is exactly the same Pinkie, as large and beautiful as ever. She falls upon me with cries of joy and nearly squeezes me to death in the exuberance of her welcome. In fact she is so excited that I am quite alarmed, for I am aware that inordinate excitement in Pinkie prompts her to perform Catherine Wheels and these would be slightly out of place on the platform of the Waverly Station.

  “Darling!” cries Pinkie. “Darling Hester . . . but I’m terribly angry with you. Where’s your suitcase? Give it to me. I’ll take that, too—and that.” She seizes two suitcases, a holdal
l, a large basket of provisions and a brown-paper parcel and marches off with them.

  “Stop! Let me carry something!” I cry, galloping after her.

  “It’s nothing,” says Pinkie. “I’m as strong as a lion—and we’d better hurry because I’ve got a taxi waiting, unless of course he’s deserted us and gone off with somebody else. He isn’t there! Hester, isn’t that sickening! Oh no, there he is, waiting quite patiently, poor soul. I know him by his funny little moustache—rather like Hitler, don’t you think? Perhaps he is Hitler—or are you one of the people who think Hitler is really dead? Guthrie is sure he isn’t. Guthrie thinks Hitler went off to Ireland and left one of his doubles to die with Eva Braun. . . . There you are!” exclaims Pinkie rapturously to the taxi driver. “I thought you’d gone when you weren’t there.”

  “We’re not allowed to wait over there, miss,” explains the man.

  “Well, I didn’t know, you see,” says Pinkie. “But anyhow here you are. It was awfully nice of you to wait and not go off with an American Officer who would have given you a pound and not asked for change.”

  The man smiles and says there are not as many of those about as you’d think from reading the papers and anyway he said he’d wait.

  “I can see you’re a man of your word,” says Pinkie, handing me in.

  We crawl up the slope from the station and buzz along Princess Street at a terrific pace.

  “And now, Hester,” says Pinkie, looking at me with her large blue eyes. “Now perhaps you will explain what you mean by this. I’m terribly angry with you—and so is Guthrie. We’re both absolutely furious. . . . ”

  At this moment the taxi swerves violently and Pinkie clutches my arm. “Oh Heavens!” she cries. “Look at that child! I thought we were over it! People ought to take more care of their children and teach them not to cross the road without looking. Guthrie says people here are terribly careless compared with other countries. I know you always used to tell Betty to look both ways . . . how is Betty? And Bryan—how’s dear Bryan? I simply love Bryan, he’s the most adorable creature. . . . No, it’s here on the left!” cries Pinkie, leaning forward and knocking on the window. “Yes, that’s right . . . no, no, on the left!”