Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  Grace explains rather ruthlessly that she never thought of such a thing, it is the B.B.G. she wants Miss Slingsby to join, not the British Broadcasting Company – ‘Buy British Goods, you know.’ Miss Slingsby says, ‘Oh, but I always do,’ and is hustled away by her niece – who lives with her and treats her like a half-wit – before anything more can be done about it.

  On the way home Grace assures me that she finds the atmosphere and the society of Biddington ‘So Stultifying’. Feel that I can’t agree with her conscientiously until I have looked it up in the dictionary.

  Twenty-third January

  The Child and Tubby ‘drop in’ to tea they hunt in couples, these two. Betty appears rather before her usual time and demands a game of ‘Bears’. Game somewhat dangerous to our good landlord’s furniture. Have a feeling that the Child wishes to speak to me privately probably about the episode in Mess but decide that the least said on the subject the better and manage to evade his manoeuvres for a tête-à-tête.

  After their departure Tim says he wonders why they came, subalterns nowadays are a tame lot compared to what they were in his time no initiative. Tim wonders how they would behave in an emergency – probably lose their heads altogether.

  Twenty-seventh January

  Decide to spend a busy morning looking over my clothes for Charters Towers, and mending a large rent in second-best evening dress which I caught on a nail in Cassandra last time we went out to dinner.

  Annie comes in to say have I telephoned to the shops as Katie wants the potatoes early? And do I give anything to the Recreation Fund for Biddington Orphans as the man has called twice? Reply that I am an orphan myself without available funds for recreation, so perhaps my name might be added to the list of beneficiaries. Annie retires smiling and I lean over banisters to hear what she says to the man, but am, unfortunately, too late.

  Am horrified to discover I have mislaid list of commodities required by Katie, search for it feverishly, but unavailingly. Am reduced to making out a fresh list from memory. Feel certain that I have forgotten several items of importance, but have not the moral courage to return to kitchen for information. Ring up all the shops and wonder anew why these establishments always detail their least intelligent assistants to answer the phone. Greengrocer especially idiotic, cannot understand my name, has to go away to find out if there are any mushrooms today, and again to enquire what price they are. Feel convinced that a law should be made compelling shops to answer the telephone by giving their name, instead of with conventional and meaningless ‘Hello.’

  Am interrupted in an important conversation on the subject of mutton, and asked if I will take a trunk call. Wait for ten minutes at the end of which an unknown man’s voice says, ‘Hullo, darling – is that you? Can you meet me tomorrow in town and do a theatre?’ Reply that nothing would please me more, but that I am afraid he has got the wrong number. Voice says, ‘What rotten luck! Don’t I know you then? Your voice sounds charming.’ Reply hastily that I am fat and deeply pitted with smallpox. Voice says he doesn’t believe a word of it, and that he can tell exactly what I am like by my voice, and will I lunch with him at the Malmaison. Ring off at once as I feel sure that Tim would not approve of this conversation.

  Twenty-ninth January

  Major Morley calls for us in his Bentley according to plan. Bollings carries out our suitcases – which look small and shabby beside the shining glory of the car (but alas they look smaller and shabbier when we arrive at Charters Towers). I sit in front beside Major M., Tim in the back seat. Car purrs like a contented pussycat, so different from Cassandra’s rattle and roar.

  Try tentatively to find out the nature of the Morley family, but Major M. is in a facetious mood, so I can only elicit the information that Sir Abraham is an ogre who eats young women, and Lady Morley practises the black arts. I discover, however, that Major Morley’s married sister is to be there complete with husband, also ‘some of the county’.

  Grow more and more terrified and wish devoutly that Major M. would not drive so fast – we shall be there far too soon. Country looking very beautiful after last night’s rain. Diamonds sparkling on the bare black trees and in the hedges. The pale winter sun sucking up the moisture from the bare fields creates a grey haze shot with blue and lavender.

  We arrive just before lunch, and are welcomed with warm dignity by our host and hostess. Three footmen rush out to unload the car and seem disappointed at finding so little luggage to carry in. Am seized with an insane wish that I had brought another suitcase – if necessary filled with stones – but reflect that this might have caused surprise to the maid, who will presumably do my unpacking. Am introduced to about a dozen other guests who are chattering in the lounge, but fail to hear any of their names except that of a large dark woman all in white who is Lady Angela Carruthers.

  My bedroom is large and comfortable, with a sofa and chairs drawn up to a huge log fire. It is more like a sitting room than a bedroom. Tim is evidently lodged in a different part of the house as I see no more of him until I descend for lunch. Am so overawed by the size of the dining room and the variety of food that I have difficulty in finding anything to say to my neighbours. Difficulty increased by not knowing their names, conditions or tastes. Fortunately I find that they have plenty to say to me on a variety of subjects, so lunch passes swiftly and pleasantly.

  After lunch the whole party walks out to see The Course. I find Major Morley beside me, he is in his soft voice mood which always makes me feel uncomfortable, as I don’t know whether he means what he says or is trying to be funny. In front of us is a bunch of smart young women chattering hard. Major M. asks whether I have ever been to the Zoo and visited the Parrot House. Reply that I have, and that I like parrots, they are so amusing. Major M. thinks I would soon tire of parrots if I lived with them constantly. Am involved in an argument of double entendre which Major M. wins easily as he is far too clever for me and is not hampered by proper feelings towards his father’s guests.

  We come upon Lady Angela, still clad in white and walking by herself. Major Morley says softly, ‘Why do you walk through the fields in gloves?’

  Cannot forbear a chuckle at this, but feel that Major M. is really very naughty. Point out to him that everyone is wearing gloves today because it is cold, and that Lady A. may be fat and white, but he can’t be sure that nobody loves her. Major M. replies that that is just the very thing that he can be sure of.

  The conversation becomes slightly unsafe, I look round hastily for Tim, but he is having an animated conversation with a young woman in tweeds and a letter-box mouth, so is ungetatable.

  The course is distinctly muddy, but everyone thinks that ‘this wind will dry it up before tomorrow.’ Major M. produces his cinema Kodak, and takes pictures of girls climbing over fences, etc. Some of them seem to like it. Tim examines the jumps very solemnly and takes advice from a horsey-looking man in gaiters who is said to be the most reckless rider in Midshire. Feel slightly worried about this.

  We return to Charters Towers for tea.

  After tea, ‘all the young people’ (which includes Tim and me) repair to the billiard room where we play curling on the billiard table. Major Morley instructs me where to send my ball and seems much surprised when I send it there. So much talking and laughing goes on that I find it impossible to make out the object of the game, but am relieved to hear at the end that ‘our side has won.’

  Dinner is not long but everything very good, I could eat a lot more. White wine is excellent so I drink three glasses and begin to feel that I can keep my end up. We sail off to the drawing room and find there a lovely log fire which everyone says is ‘delightful on a cold night’. Very brown woman called Melita (whose surname I failed to catch) starts telling us about her appendix which went wrong in the middle of Africa. Fortunately her ‘head boy’ had some sense and fetched a native doctor from a mud village. He had been a medical student but failed to get his degree. This dusky ‘Luke’ operated on her at her own request and she
made a wonderful – recovery. Talk veers to the subject of bed amazing candour on the idiosyncrasies of husbands. Am impelled to tell funny story which I extracted from Tim after last Mess Guest Night and emerge from obscurity into a blaze of limelight. Everyone still laughing when the men appear and ask what is the joke, but joke not suitable for mixed company.

  Melita is induced to sing and does so to her own accompaniment in a queer hoarse voice. She manages to sing the most ridiculous songs with a grave face – am quite weak with laughter. Lady Angela who is sitting beside me on a small sofa remarks that ‘Melita is very amusing – is she not? Especially when thoroughly ginned.’ Feel that Lady Angela does not care for Melita. Discover the reason later when Lady Angela is asked to sing. She does not require pressing, and renders several of Tosti’s most moving compositions in an astonishingly loud contralto.

  The party melts away soon after this and I find myself upstairs, and am thankful to remove a pair of silver shoes which I bought at a sale and which are really too small for me. The horrible things have been torturing me the whole evening. Put on my best pyjamas green silk with yellow flowers and a cheap but effective Happi-Coat, and curl up on the sofa near the fire to write my diary.

  Tim appears shortly with Major Morley and a tray of drinks, they come in and sit round the fire smoking and talking about tomorrow’s point-to-point. Major M. advises Tim to ‘go slow at the brook’ as the ground there is somewhat sticky. He thinks that ‘Black Witch’ is likely to be Tim’s most dangerous opponent, but ‘Lightning’ (a tall grey) is a fine jumper and may quite likely be in the running. They also talk of a big bay which is called ‘My Hat’, but Major M. says it’s being ridden by a ‘poor stiff’ which militates against its chances. Tim listens eagerly and says quite unnecessarily that he will ‘do his damnedest’.

  Major M. asks what on earth I am writing, and is informed by Tim that it is my strange custom (since 1st January) to record my daily doings in the enormous tome which he now beholds. Tim also volunteers the information that the book is kept securely locked and that he doesn’t ‘think it will last long’. Realise that it is my perseverance he doubts (not the book’s durability) and throw a sofa cushion at his head.

  Major M. seems interested and asks if he comes into the book. Reply that, since it is the veracious chronicle of my life, he comes into it whenever he crosses my path. Feel that Major M. is disappointed with this answer, he pours out another drink and goes away. As Tim’s room is miles away down several draughty corridors and I am rather nervous about strange houses (possibly haunted by ghosts of long-dead Morleys) we decide to share large bed. This in defiance of the conventions of high life which decree that husbands and wives shall sleep solo – or at any rate not with each other.

  Bed is exceedingly soft and comfortable.

  Thirtieth January

  Cannot think where I am when I awake. Maid comes to light fire and enquire about baths; also asks diffidently whether ‘the major’ will breakfast here or in his own room. Reply boldly that he will have it here and waken Tim to tell him of his rise in rank. Tim not particularly amused at what I consider a good joke.

  Footman enters with enormous tray containing hot dishes with lamps beneath them. Tim dissertates on the excellent idea of breakfasting comfortably in one’s own room instead of facing the world with false smiles concealing emptiness, and says he could put in a couple of weeks at Charters Towers.

  We dawdle about, dressing, and talking about our fellow guests Tim says what do I think of Melita, and do I think Morley is going to marry her. Am amazed at the question as I am sure he has never thought of her. We then discuss our host and hostess and calculate ‘How Much Sir Abraham must have per annum’. Calculations extremely vague as neither Tim nor I have had any experience of establishments run on lines of Charters Towers with butlers and footmen and hunting stables, etc. Tim says he doesn’t suppose Morley will go on in the regiment at any rate not after Sir Abraham’s death. Whereupon I point out that Sir Abraham is most hale and hearty and not the least likely to die for years.

  Tim says, ‘He doesn’t overeat himself either.’

  We go downstairs at eleven o’clock, but find nobody about, so feel that we have made a faux sortie, and decide to retire upstairs again and wait till twelve.

  Meet Mrs. Winthrop (Major Morley’s married sister) just leaving her room. She says, ‘Good God, where have you been?’ and seems horrified to think we are together without visible means of relief from each other’s company. Suggests that Tim should ‘beat up Tony’ and have a look at the stables with him, or better still that Tim should go to the stables with her and I should ‘beat up Tony’. I vote unhesitatingly for the first course of action. Tim, however, refuses to ‘beat up’ his superior officer so Mrs. Winthrop beats him up, and we find him giving the finishing touches to his toilet with a clothes-brush.

  We all go together to the stables accompanied by a large white bulldog called Joseph who has a chronic tendency to adenoids. The party grows like a snowball as it rolls along – am struck by the ability of these people to talk nonsense incessantly, and decide that I am a dull dog.

  Major Morley has a pocket full of sugar and instructs me in the art of conveying same to a horse’s mouth without getting bitten. Gain confidence rapidly and begin to feel quite at home with the beautiful velvet-nosed creatures. Major M.’s favourite mare is black with a white nose and is called Nora.

  Coming back from the stables I find myself walking with Lady Angela; she evidently knows her way about and leads me into the vinery which is very warm and steamy. Lady Angela says she is an enemy of convention and an apostle of free love. Goes into embarrassing details. Feel extermely hot but cannot decide whether this is the effect of Lady Angela’s confidences or the tropical temperature of the vinery. Try to maintain an aloof and noncommittal attitude towards Lady Angela’s revelations, but Lady A. will have none of it. She says I need not fear her, and that she knows all about it, and sympathises with my attitude with all her heart, etc., etc.

  Am completely mystified by these hints and innuendoes. Finally in disgust at my pretended(?) ignorance of her meaning, Lady Angela says that she saw Tony Morley coming out of my bedroom at 1 a.m. Am so astounded at the implication that I can do nothing but laugh. Lady Angela seems surprised at my levity and obviously thinks I am old in sin.

  At last I recover sufficiently to gasp out that Major Morley merely came to speak to Tim about the race, and that we all sat talking by the fire and forgot the time.

  Lady Angela says that anyone with ‘half an eye’ can see that Tony is in love with me. Reply hastily that she is entirely mistaken in all her surmises, but I can see that she neither believes me, nor wishes to believe me.

  The booming of the gong for lunch puts an end to our interesting conversation. Am thankful to escape from the heat and embarrassment of the vinery and Lady Angela combined.

  Have no opportunity to tell Tim of my lost reputation until he is dressing for the race. Tim is horrified and shocked. Keeps on saying that ‘This must be put right,’ and that he will ‘speak to Morley’. Beseech him to refrain. Tim says, ‘But good heavens, Hester, that hag will tell everyone.’ Reply that she has probably done so already, and that if Tim fusses about it he will make us the laughing stock of the party. Frightful argument ensues and continues until Major M. bangs on the door and says it is past two o’clock and is Tim a nineteenth-century débutante dressing for her first ball?

  We rush downstairs and pack ourselves into various cars which are waiting at the door. Manoeuvre with great guile for a seat in one which does not contain Major M. as I feel I can’t face him at present. Find myself next to Commander Grey who is sulky because he hoped to sit next to Mrs. Winthrop whose seat I have taken.

  We arrive at the course and find a crowd of tweedy county people with loud voices and weatherbeaten complexions. The horses are being walked up and down by grooms. Fireguard looks splendid with a ripple of muscles beneath his silky coat.

  Maj
or M. appears at my elbow and asks if I want to put something on. Reply ‘Yes, on Fireguard.’ He goes away to do it.

  – Seize a good-looking boy who goes by the name of Smuts – real name unknown – and ask eagerly if he will show me where to get a good view. He looks surprised but quite pleased, and we sneak off together through a small wood to one of the jumps. Here Smuts hoists me on to the branch of a tree and scrambles up beside me. He points out that we can see two of the jumps and have a good view of Start and Winning Post. I compliment him on his sagacity and congratulate myself on having escaped from Major Morley and hidden myself successfully. Smuts very entertaining, he reminds me of Bryan in some ways, but his superior age is in his favour.

  The first race is very exciting and is won by a man with a long nose riding a horse with a long neck. Point out to Smuts the advantage of a horse with a long neck in a close race. Smuts sees my idea and agrees that racehorses should be bred with that end in view. We laugh at the pun.

  Smuts says he sees ‘the major’ looking for me and adds cryptically that ‘he won’t half be ratty, but it’s worth it’. Make no comment.

  The second race is Tim’s. We see the start, twelve horses running. Fireguard easily distinguishable on account of red foxy colour and light tail. Smuts says he has ten quid on Fireguard, and invites me to lunch at Giorgoni’s if he wins. If Fireguard loses, Smuts says, he will have to sell his false teeth. Reply facetiously that he won’t get much for them, and then have a qualm as to whether his teeth can possibly be false – if so, have I been rude? Can’t tell whether they are or not as he keeps his mouth shut.

  Loud cries of ‘They’re off’ cut short my meditations, and the horses sweep off down a field. Cries of ‘Black Witch – Black Witch leading’. See a huge black mare in front. Horses disappear over a hedge.