Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 6

  “I was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I say,” I reply, groping for my gloves. “I was wrong about her. She is a bad old stick. You had better be careful of her.”

  “What has she done?” cries Grace. “You can’t go now without explaining. You have spent hours beseeching me to be nice to her and now, when I feel that I can be nice to her, you swing round and warn me against her like a Delphic Oracle or something . . . Hester, don’t go!”

  Fortunately Grace is in bed and can neither prevent my departure nor follow me. It is most important that I should go now—immediately—for I am aware that if I remain a moment longer, I shall blurt out the whole story of Mrs. Benson’s duplicity and the fat will be in the fire. Grace must never know . . . nobody must ever know . . . the whole affair must remain a secret, locked up for ever in my own breast. The secret is so leaden that I would give a good deal for a confidante, to whom it might safely be revealed.

  I hasten away, deaf to all Grace’s appeals, blandishments and threats.

  Part II

  April–May

  MONDAY 1ST APRIL

  Good resolutions anent keeping a diary already broken as I find I have written nothing for a fortnight. Easter has come and gone, but as it is so early this year the children’s holidays do not start until tomorrow. Have had several letters from Tim, and from what he says there seems to be very little fighting—except in the air—and, thank heaven, very few casualties. Have decided not to mention the war in my diary—or at least only to mention it as it affects me. Diary is to be an escape from war (if possible). Domestic affairs much smoother now. Mrs. Fraser is settling down and is not nearly so alarming, and she and Annie seem to be getting on better. . . . Have been obliged to speak to them about the kitchen wireless which has been blaring at full pitch from early morning to late at night. Remonstrances taken very well and immediate improvement noticeable. Have made up my mind that I must keep the household up to the mark while Tim is away—I am too apt to let things get slack. This will not do at all, and even though I don’t care what I eat, and would rather bear small deficiencies than complain about them, I must insist upon everything being properly done . . . it will be easier in the holidays because Bryan will be here and he enjoys good food.

  WEDNESDAY 3RD APRIL

  Bryan returns home for his Easter holidays. He seems somewhat subdued, is unnaturally polite and replies to all questions in monosyllables. Feel worried about the child and ask him whether he is feeling quite well. He replies in the affirmative. Ask him whether he is tired and would like to spend the day in bed. He replies in the negative. During the day Bryan’s good manners wear off a little and he becomes more like himself. He makes friends with the boy next door and invites him to come and play in the small burn which flows through the back part of the garden. They play there the whole afternoon and Bryan comes in to supper extremely wet and dirty. He announces, at supper, that this garden is much better fun than the garden at Biddington—it is smaller of course but there are better trees in it and the burn is simply marvellous.

  Personally I have always thought the burn somewhat uninteresting, it is a small trickle of water flowing between banks about three feet high. Betty shares my opinion of it. She says “But Bryan, it’s a rotten little burn, you can’t sail boats in it or anything. It’s too shallow to be any fun.”

  Bryan does not reply, and I am just congratulating myself upon having the burn—which will keep Bryan happy during the holidays—when Annie comes in and says “Please Ma’am, will you come. There’s water pouring under the back door and the kitchen’s ankle deep!”

  I look at Bryan, and, noting his expression of guilty dismay, realise immediately that he is the author of the flood.

  By this time it is dark and cloudy. I rush into the hall, seize my waterproof, my Wellington boots, a torch and a spade. Bryan says “Can I come? I want to see if my boat’s all right.” I reply sternly, “Come? Of course you must come. Hurry up and get ready.”

  Bryan and I sally forth together. It is so dark that I can see nothing, but I am aware that a stream of water is flowing along the path to the back door. Bryan keeps close to my side. He says “I am sorry, I meant to be so good . . . with Dad away and everything.”

  Feel my heart melting within me but make no reply.

  Just as we reach the bank of the stream the clouds part and a beam of moonlight shines forth. It shines on to a large pool of water which stretches from bank to bank, a pool which brims to the lip of Bryan’s dam and ripples gently in the breeze.

  “Oh!” exclaims Bryan in amazed admiration of his handiwork, “Oh golly, what a dam!”

  It is indeed a masterpiece of engineering, and despite my annoyance and vexation I cannot but admire it. The water in the pool is not rising now but remaining at the same level. Bryan points this out and explains that it is because he made an overflow. “You see I built it exactly like it said in my book,” says Bryan gravely. “I made the overflow . . . and the dam itself is convex so the strain is taken by the banks. Arthur wanted to make it concave, but I was right.”

  I feel that Bryan is getting too pleased with himself, so I point out as sternly as possible that it was a very silly thing to do, and has occasioned a great deal of trouble for everyone.

  Bryan agrees remorsefully. “Yes,” he says. “Oh yes . . . but I never thought it would fill up so quickly—neither did Arthur—we thought it would take all night.” He heaves a sigh and adds “We’ll have to bust it, I suppose.”

  Most certainly we shall have to bust it, and the sooner it is busted the better. I hand Bryan the spade and he prepares himself for his task. “I had better let it out gradually, hadn’t I?” he says, “I mean we don’t want it to rush down and do some damage below.”

  This seems a sensible suggestion and I agree to it, but Bryan’s efforts to “let it out gradually” are doomed to failure. He makes a small opening with his spade and the imprisoned water does the rest; it pours like a torrent through the gap, widening it, deepening it, sweeping away rocks and stones and tightly packed turves in its mad rush to be free.

  There is nothing to be done, nothing that we could do would stop it; we stand there silent and somewhat awed. In a few moments the brimming pool has vanished and in its place is the usual narrow turgid stream of water flowing over its usual stony bed.

  We walk back to the house—still without speaking. I have no intention of punishing Bryan for his deed. He knows that he has been foolish and that is punishment enough.

  As we reach the kitchen door—the step of which is covered with a thin layer of mud—Bryan heaves a sigh. “I wish Edgeburton could have seen it,” says Bryan regretfully.

  SATURDAY 6TH APRIL

  Return home to lunch somewhat jaded after a morning’s shopping and am met at the door by Annie who says that the young lady has arrived, and she is unpacking, and was it all right to put on a fire in the spare room because it felt a bit dampish.

  I enquire in bewilderment, “What young lady?”

  Annie replies, “She said you expected her. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten to tell me . . . I didn’t know what to do.”

  I enquire again—this time in some irritation—“What young lady, Annie?”

  Annie says, “It’s Miss Bradshaw . . . and cook sent out for another cutlet and she’s making a chocolate pudding.”

  Words fail me. I make my way upstairs and open the door of the spare room. As a rule this room is a bare, somewhat austere apartment with a cold and slightly fusty smell, but Annie’s fire has cheered it up and my guest’s clothes, strewn all over the chairs and bed, give it a friendly air. There are silver brushes on the dressing table and tissue paper all over the floor and kneeling before an open trunk is my guest herself—a large fair young woman with golden curls and a peachy complexion. She looks round as the door opens and, scattering paper in all directions, she rises and flings herself upon me with cries of delight.

  “Darling Mrs. Ti
m . . . how lovely this is!”

  I am so overcome with astonishment that I murmur feebly, “Oh Pinkie . . . how you’ve grown!”

  “I know,” says Pinkie, shaking her head. “I know . . . it’s simply frightful. I don’t suppose you would know me, would you? Nobody does know me. Of course I’m far too big all over,” declares Pinkie, stroking herself all over at the words. “I know I am . . . and of course I ought to diet . . . but I simply can’t.” She hugs me again, and then continues: “You didn’t expect me to write, did you? You knew I’d come, didn’t you? I can’t tell you how excited I was when I got your letter. I would have come right away but I’d promised to stay and help with a beastly bazaar . . . so I had to. I came as soon as ever I could.”

  I reply, somewhat breathlessly, that if she had let me know the date of her arrival I would have had the room prepared and could have met her at the station, but Pinkie brushes all this aside and declares that it didn’t matter the least bit in the world. “Annie was sweet to me,” says Pinkie, “she had the fire going in no time—though I told her I didn’t need a fire—and I got a taxi at the station, it was the oldest taxi in the world and it chugged along exactly like a steam roller. Oh dear, how lovely it is to see you again! You haven’t changed a bit, not the tiniest little scrap . . .”

  It is quite impossible to be annoyed with Pinkie—or at least to be annoyed with her for more than a few seconds. My annoyance has vanished into thin air and I am able to welcome her warmly and sincerely and to enquire after all her relations. Pinkie says, “Well I haven’t seen Aunt Elinor for more than a month but I expect she’s all right . . . and Father may be coming home from India. I haven’t seen him for two years. He took me to the school in Paris and left me there . . . I expect he’ll get a bit of a shock when he sees me again. I loved being in Paris and I didn’t want to come home, but it’s quite fun being grown-up. Seventeen really is grown-up, isn’t it? It’s about ten years older than sixteen . . . I felt quite different the moment I was seventeen, wasn’t that odd? . . . I suppose you think I’m simply enormous?”

  I reply hastily that she is by no means enormous, but that she used to be so small, hence my surprise, and looking at her more carefully I perceive that her figure—though somewhat exuberant for present day fashions—is beautifully proportioned. I take in at a glance her skin, her teeth, her hair, her finely chiselled features and decide that she is without flaw, a veritable goddess . . . only her eyes are human, they are gentian blue, kind and friendly and trustful.

  “Pinkie,” I say sternly, “Pinkie, what’s all this about being enormous? You know quite well that you’re an exceedingly attractive young woman.”

  “Oh well!” says Pinkie, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Oh well of course . . . I mean you can’t help knowing when people like you . . . and it’s fun, really, in a way. But I’d give anything,” says Pinkie earnestly, “I really would give anything to be small and slim, with dark hair and brown eyes.”

  MONDAY 8TH APRIL

  I receive quite a sheaf of letters this morning. Tim’s letter has priority over the others and I open it eagerly. It is a short letter and contains little news. He says they are digging like beavers and making everything nice for Brother Boche. The men are suffering from blistered hands so will I send out all the gloves available from the “Comforts Fund.” There are a good many Jerry planes about but they don’t do much harm.

  There is also a letter from Mrs. Loudon saying that her lumbago is better and she wants to come and see Guthrie. Can I find her lodgings in Donford? She adds in a postscript, “You needn’t think you have to ask me to stay with you for I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  This is so like Mrs. Loudon that I have to laugh.

  Betty asks why I am laughing and I reply that Mrs. Loudon is coming to Donford.

  Betty says, “Oh, let’s go and stay with her instead. It would be much nicer. Bryan can come too . . . Bryan would love it, wouldn’t you Bryan?”

  Bryan agrees that he would.

  I point out that we have not been asked to stay at Avielochan and that Mrs. Loudon is coming on purpose to see Guthrie.

  Betty says, “What a pity!” in a disappointed tone.

  As I am aware that Mrs. Loudon always says exactly what she means, and that if she has made up her mind to refuse my hospitality nothing less than a seventy horse power tractor will move her to change it, I sally forth to find rooms for her in the town. It is not an easy task, for the town is full of “evacuees” and soldiers’ relations and I trail from house to house without success. Some of the houses look clean and comfortable, but have no rooms to let, others have rooms to let but are dirty and unkempt. At one house, which seems suitable, and has a couple of pleasant rooms vacant, I am informed that “the lodger would need to get her own breakfast”, at another there is only one bathroom and the hot water is strictly rationed, and at a third I am interviewed and turned away by a peroxide blonde who says that she prefers gentlemen.

  At first these adventures are somewhat amusing, but after a little they become far otherwise. It is late in the day before I succeed in finding a bedroom and sitting room which I think will suit Mrs. Loudon’s requirements. The house seems clean and comfortable and the landlady amiable and willing to please. She informs me that she does not take lodgers, she has never had to do such a thing—“never thought on it”—but she is willing to oblige by offering hospitality to a paying guest. To Mrs. Macphail the difference is of immense importance. She assures me that Mr. Macphail would turn in his grave if she were to take a lodger, but apparently he will continue to rest in peace if she takes a paying guest. I promise to write to Mrs. Loudon and make the point perfectly clear.

  “She’s an old lady, you said?” enquires Mrs. Macphail.

  I have not said so, for it would never occur to me to call Mrs. Loudon an old lady. To me an old lady conjures up the vision of a placid plumpish lady dressed in rustling silk with a large cameo brooch upon her bosom and a white shawl over her shoulders. An old lady sitting by the fire with her feet on a cross-stitch footstool, talking about “the old days” in a tiny threadlike quavery voice.

  “Well, she isn’t young,” I reply, somewhat doubtfully.

  “She’ll not have Breedge Parties and burn the electreecity?” enquires Mrs. Macphail anxiously.

  “No, I’m certain she won’t do that.”

  “And she’ll not smoke in bed?”

  “No, I can promise that.”

  “Ooh well,” says Mrs. Macphail, and the thing is settled.

  I engage the rooms provisionally for a week and send off a wire to Mrs. Loudon.

  TUESDAY 9TH APRIL

  As I have been bidden to dine with the MacDougalls tonight and have accepted the invitation I ring up Grace and explain that I have a guest. Grace says, “Bring her too and I’ll get the balloon-man, he was rather sweet. As a matter of fact he was a professor at the University before he went into the balloons.”

  I enquire whether she is sure it will not be too many, but Grace assures me that she is in tremendous form and is looking forward to the party with keen anticipation. “Nurse has gone,” says Grace. “Of course she was a perfect gem but—well—I don’t mind telling you I feel like a person who has just come out of jail . . . Yes, I do know how they feel because I feel like it, you see . . . and Jack feels like it too. We’re going to have fizz to drink the boys’ healths and Jack says if it were not for the black-out we would have fireworks. . . . Yes, we’re both on top of the world.”

  We arrive at the party rather late because Pinkie has taken such a long time to dress, but I am bound to admit the result of her efforts is exceedingly pleasing. Her gown is made of soft white crepe and moulds her figure like a sheath, and there is a wreath of shining green leaves in her hair. As she follows me into Grace’s drawing room there is a sudden hush—a tribute to her loveliness—and I go forward to shake hands, feeling like the duck who hatched out a swan. Bill, who is standing at the fireplace drinking a cocktail, looks r
ound and sees us. His face goes the colour of a tomato, and his glass falls from his nerveless fingers and crashes on to the tiles.

  Jack says, “Leave it . . . doesn’t matter a bit . . . Woolworth’s . . . quite all right, Bill.”

  Meanwhile Grace, who is always at her best as a hostess, is welcoming us cordially and making the introductions. Miss Browne Winters, Captain Ledgard and Captain Baker complete the party. Miss B. W. looks even more peculiar than before. Her hair is cut in Egyptian fashion with a straight fringe, and her clothing is composed of tightly swathed scarves.

  Grace says dinner is ready and we’ll go in; as we troop through the hall, she seizes my arm and says, “Where did you find Brunhilda? She’s gorgeous!” but there is no time to reply.

  Dinner is an enjoyable meal. The food is excellent—as it always is in Grace’s house—for Grace despite her somewhat slapdash manner is a very good housekeeper. Everyone is talking about the German invasion of Norway and Denmark and of our promise to help the Norwegians. Jack MacDougall declares that it is the best thing that could have happened and that Hitler has overshot himself completely, but Captain Baker is not nearly so optimistic and seems to have a much higher opinion of the enemy’s strength. He was in Germany for a few weeks last summer before the war started and assures us that Hitler has everything planned to the last button and will stop at nothing to attain his ends.

  Jack says, “What are his ends?”

  Captain Baker replies, “World domination. Anyone who reads Mein Kampf must realise that.”

  I am finding the conversation most interesting and am annoyed when Miss Browne Winters puts an end to it by saying in a loud voice that it makes her feel quite ill when people talk about the war. Jack enquires (quite reasonably, I think) what she likes to talk about, to which Miss Browne Winters replies that there are many subjects upon which civilised people can exchange ideas with profit to themselves and each other. This pronouncement produces an alarming silence—for my part I am racking my brains in the endeavour to find a subject which will attain the high standard demanded by my fellow guest. The silence is broken by Pinkie who remarks suddenly and ecstatically, “Oh, I do love chocolate ice pudding!” This releases everyone from constraint and the situation is saved.