Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  Major Morley is standing by himself with field glasses glued to his eyes. I wonder how much he has on Fireguard. Smuts points out a field on our left and says we shall see them there in a few minutes.

  Hours elapse. Then three horses appear but no Fireguard. Somebody calls out that ‘Fireguard is down’. Have scarcely time to grow cold with fear before Fireguard appears and seems to be gaining on the others. Smuts bounds up and down on the branch shouting ‘Fireguard’ until I am nearly dislodged. They thunder up to the jump nearest to us. Black Witch is leading, but jumps short, and she and her rider roll over into the ditch. The next two clear the hedge, and Tim goes over in fine style – the rest follow. We are so near that I can see the horses’ rolling eyes and the riders’ frantic expressions – some of the horses are steaming with heat.

  Smuts rushes to rescue the rider of Black Witch who seems stunned by his fall –am so thrilled over the race that I can’t take my eyes off the horses. Away they go over another jump. My Hat pecks and loses distance – there is only one in front of Tim now. Somebody yells, ‘Mr. Maloney – Mr. Maloney’ – am doubtful whether this is the name of the horse or the rider – probably the former. They start on the second round of the course.

  By the time they appear again Tim is in front with a big grey close behind. Smuts says it is Lightning. The grey seems to be gaining on Tim, and they are neck and neck as they go over our jump. Frightful excitement as they tear up the last field to the winning post. Everyone waving their hats and shouting ‘Lightning’ or ‘Fireguard’. Smuts and I scramble off our perch and run back to the winning post to see who has won. We arrive in time to hear everyone shouting ‘Fireguard’, and to see Tim getting smacked on the back by all those sagacious people who backed him. Huge lump in my throat at Tim’s victory feel perfectly idiotic and can’t speak.

  We wait for another race which is rather an anticlimax after the last, as only three horses run, and it is practically a walkover for a squat black-haired man whom nobody seems to know. Then we pack into the cars and return to Charters Towers for tea. Major Morley asks me in a hurt tone where I have been hiding as he looked everywhere for me reply that Smuts and I were in a tree and had a splendid view of the whole thing. Major M. looks surprised and says he wanted to explain the race to me and he had brought an extra pair of field glasses for my benefit. Feel I have been rather a brute.

  He then says – ‘By the way here are your winnings,’ and hands me twenty pounds in rather grubby notes. Am simply staggered at the amount and say so. Major M. says he got four to one for me, and I realise that if Fireguard had lost I should have had to pay five pounds, whereas five shillings was the most I should have risked on the race (the more so as I don’t possess five pounds in the world). My breath is almost taken away by the variety and depth of my emotions, but I realise that I had better keep them to myself especially as Fireguard has won and I am twenty pounds to the good.

  Rush upstairs to change my shoes which are so heavy with mud that I can hardly walk, and find Tim struggling out of his riding boots. He is flushed with triumph and asks me where I was and whether I saw him at the last fence. Reply ecstatically that I did, and that he is a clever old thing and the best rider in Midshire. Tim says he thinks he showed them a thing or two. Reply suitably. Tim says, ‘It is fun, isn’t it, Hester?’ Reply in the affirmative, but am inwardly feeling somewhat jaded. So wearing to have to be clever all the time.

  Show Tim my winnings at which he says, ‘Good God, Hester! What on earth were you thinking of ? Supposing I hadn’t won?’ Reply that I knew he was going to win which cuts the ground from under his feet.

  All the people from the point-to-point seem to be having tea at Charters Towers. Fearful squash in the dining room. Smuts sees me from afar and brings me a cup of tea and a tomato sandwich. Major M. also making his way through the crowd with tea for me but arrives too late. Seems rather annoyed about it, but it is not my fault.

  Am told that there is to be a dance after dinner and that Mrs. Winthrop has wired to York for two violins and a pianist. Everyone seems to think this quite commonplace behaviour. Major M. is sent off to the telephone with a list of people to ask. He looks rather sulky over it, but has no option as everyone does what Mrs. Winthrop says.

  Sit down beside Sir Abraham who remarks, ‘You women are never satisfied. Why can’t you be content to sit down with a paper in the evening? This world would be a nice quiet place to live in, if it were not for you women.’

  Reply defensively that it is no use to blame women for being women. We were born that way and can’t help it any more than a mosquito can help being born a mosquito and addicted to its annoying habits of biting people and giving them malaria. It is merely doing what it was born to do.

  Sir Abraham opines that mosquitoes enjoy biting people, just as women enjoy bustling round and upsetting everyone’s comfort.

  Feel it is time to carry the war into the enemy’s territory and point out to Sir Abraham that men are always down on women and yet they expect women to do the most marvellous things such as invisible patches and darns. They also expect them to be able to make a chicken soufflé out of the remains of yesterday’s rabbit, and to make short ends not only meet, but tie in a fashionable bow. Sir Abraham roars with laughter and says he would like to see Freda (his daughter) trying to make a chicken soufflé, as long as he had not got to eat it afterwards, but adds that she is pretty useful at tying her income into knots.

  Conversation cut short by dressing gong.

  I decide to wear my silver, which Tim doesn’t like. Haven’t I brought my black? he says I know he always likes my black.

  Reply that my black is four years old.

  Tim says how old do I think his tail coat is?

  Reply facetiously that I really can’t be expected to know as I am only thirty-two years old myself.

  Tim says this place is spoiling me, and it’s a good thing we are going home tomorrow.

  Dance is a great success. Tim and I cause quite a sensation by dancing together several times. Also dance with Major M. and with Smuts and Captain Winthrop. Sir Abraham asks me to sit out a dance with him, and takes me into his library where he insists on giving me a glass of port.

  My next dance is with Commander Grey, but he is nowhere to be seen. Stand about at the door talking to Lady Morley and trying to look animated. Tim comes up to me and says (holding out his watch) do I realise it is now Sunday morning, and am I going to bed as I look absolutely All In. Realise that I must look frightfully plain for Tim to notice it and agree hurriedly to go to bed. We meet Commander Grey and Mrs. Winthrop coming downstairs and hide behind a curtain till they pass. Tim says if he were David Winthrop he would give his wife a good beating.

  Our room looks very comfortable and bed most inviting – a glance in the mirror convinces me that Tim is right about my appearance.

  Thirty-first January

  Wake very late after last night’s revels. The sun is shining and everything looks and feels very Sundayish. Point out to Tim the strange fact (which has just struck me) that even the trees look like Sunday. Tim says they look the same as they did yesterday to him.

  Breakfast in our room as before – it feels like months since yesterday morning. Tim says if he lived here long he would become a Socialist. Luxury is enervating and isn’t it dreadful to think there are people in the world actually starving? Reply that I am – and ask him to pass the marmalade.

  Tim says he doesn’t know why I can never be serious for two minutes. Feel that late hours do not really agree with Tim’s constitution (have noticed the same thing before) whereas I am always particularly bright and chirpy after a dance.

  Major Morley knocks on the door and asks if Tim would like to come for a ride this morning as we need not start for Biddington until after lunch. Tim agrees joyfully and says no more about turning Socialist.

  I go downstairs to see them start and find Lady Morley is going to church. Offer to accompany her which pleases her immensely. No other
guests have appeared as yet, probably due to their exertions of last night.

  Very pretty walk across the fields, church bells in the distance play hymns slightly out of tune. Find that Lady M. was donor of bells (fortunately before I remarked upon their dissonance).

  Lady Morley says that the reason for all the unrest and troubles of modern life is because people do not go to church regularly. She hopes I will like Mr. Bridge, he is a very earnest man, – and thoroughly orthodox. The choir is really quite good church music is so uplifting when suitably rendered.

  Here we enter a field of very fierce-looking animals which I feel sure must be bulls, and I hear no more of my companion’s remarks until we have negotiated it safely. By this time Lady M. seems to have arrived at the subject of her son. She asks how I think Tony is looking. The dear boy works so hard. She thinks it is a shame the way all the work of the battalion is pushed on to Tony’s shoulders. (This idea is so entirely new to me that I find some difficulty in making a suitable reply.)

  We climb over a style and Lady Morley says – rather breathlessly that real friendship between a man and a woman is so – – ennobling don’t I agree? She actually waits for an answer to this totally irrelevant question so I gather my scattered wits and reply that ‘one meets it so seldom’ a cliché which I feel sure will appeal to Lady Morley.

  ‘Of course it must be a married woman,’ Lady Morley says. I reply vaguely that I suppose it must, and hasten forward to open the lych-gate for her.

  A crowd of villagers in the churchyard reply respectfully to Lady Morley’s greetings and questions concerning Little Harry’s tonsils and Maud’s influenza. Then I find myself sailing up the aisle in Lady Morley’s wake to the front pew where we are fastened in securely by a carved door. Am conscious of eyes boring into my back and wonder what I shall do if I feel unwell, as door seems to be bolted on the outside. Decide that there is no reason why I should feel unwell and strive to forget about it and to fix my attention on the service.

  Mr. Bridge delivers himself of a sermon based upon Noah, and draws comparisons between flood, and present-day conditions of Europe. Am interested to observe large tomb with lifesize figure of a crusading Morley reclining on the top.

  After the service we meet a great many people to whom Lady Morley chats in a condescending manner. Cannot help feeling that she is great draw to Charters Church (but perhaps this thought is slightly irreverent). Mr. Bridge appears from the vestry and is invited to lunch at Charters Towers. We all walk back across the fields together. Conversation chiefly concerned with the laxness of various farmers and their wives who have failed to put in an appearance this morning. Mr. Bridge assures me that the large animals in the field are cows and quite harmless; I feel bound to believe the word of a clergyman, but hurry across nevertheless.

  Tim is waiting for me in my room looking exceedingly worried and harassed. He wonders what he should give the butler, and should the first footman also receive a recognition of his services? And if so how much? And have I any half-crowns about me?

  Having foreseen this dilemma I am prepared with a small bag of half-crowns, which I procured from the bank before leaving Biddington. (Tim actually has the grace to compliment me on my foresight.) We divide them into piles, not without Sturm und Drang. The gong booms for lunch before we have decided what proportion is to go to the butler. Tim says he has done nothing for us except strut about and look well-fed, and he is dashed if he is going to give him more than five bob. Whereas the first footman has brought up our breakfast or was that the second footman? Reply that I have no idea as they all look alike to me, but that I think the butler is too grand to tip five bob, and Tim had better give him ten. Tim says if he doesn’t want five bob he can jolly well give it back and he (Tim) will know what to do with it.

  The butler, when approached, pockets the five bob with dignified gratitude and all is well. After lunch the Bentley appears we say good-bye to everyone, thank our hostess for our delightful visit, and are whirled off down the drive. Once clear of Charters Towers my thoughts fly homewards, and I begin to wonder what has happened there during our absence (which feels like one of months) and whether Betty is all right –

  February

  Second February

  Grace arrives just as I am starting out to see Mrs. Parsons and say ‘Good-bye’ to her. Grace says I am not to go, as she wants to hear all about Charters Towers. Explain to Grace as tactfully as possible that I must go (Mrs. Parsons being bedridden) and suggest that she should walk part of the way with me. Grace refuses to walk with me and asks why bedridden people must always be considered – FIRST (also demands why ‘bedridden’ does Mrs. Parsons ride upon her bed, or her bed upon Mrs. Parsons?). She then says darkly that there are worse troubles than bed.

  Suggest that she should come and tell me all about them tomorrow; but Grace says now is the time and she may not be alive tomorrow for all I know. She goes on to say that if I go to see Mrs. Parsons she will be very disappointed as she was looking forward to a nice long chat with me. Reply that if I don’t go Mrs. Parsons will be disappointed. Grace says I can’t possibly be sure of this. How do I know – she asks –that Mrs. Parsons really enjoys my visits? How do I know that a long-lost friend has not just arrived from Australia or Timbuctoo to see Mrs. Parsons and that my presence at their tête-à-tête will not be de trop?

  Reply mildly that I am sorry for Grace as I sometimes feel that way myself, and advise her to take a course of ‘Jane’. Grace says what is that patent medicine that I am always prescribing – it is her belief that I have shares in it.

  She pursues me to the corner producing new and increasingly fantastic arguments against my proposed visit to Mrs. Parsons, to all of which I turn a deaf ear. Grace then says will I wait a moment while she goes into the fruiterer’s and buys a bunch of black grapes for me to take to Mrs. Parsons? I ought to know better at my age – Grace says – than to visit a bedridden person without taking them a bunch of black grapes.

  Accept the reproof humbly and the grapes with gratitude and board a bus which will take me to Mrs. Parsons’ door.

  I like going to see Mrs. Parsons because she is so different from myself. Whereas I have too little time to think, Mrs. Parsons has too much. Sometimes I think she is like Meredith’s Emma ‘There is nothing the body suffers that the soul may not profit by that is Emma’s history.’

  Mrs. Parsons is propped up in bed and her bright eyes greet me at the door. We talk.

  I wish I could remember all Mrs. Parsons’ sayings. She says stimulating things that make you think, whether you want to or not. After a little while I tell Mrs. Parsons about our move to Westburgh. She says she will miss me there are so few people who bring her sunshine. Reply that I always find sunshine here, and add that I don’t think I am as nice as I used to be. (You can say foolish things like this to Mrs. Parsons.) She smiles and says I only think so because my standard has gone up. Reply that she really does not know me, I am a rebel at heart. ‘The only people who are not rebels are vegetable marrows,’ says Mrs. Parsons. Reply that it would be rather nice to be a vegetable marrow never to be discontented or miserable without any reason for being so. Mrs. Parsons laughs and says ‘Perhaps but how dull never to be joyful and happy without any reason for being so!’

  We talk about Westburgh and she asks me how I think I will like it. So many people have asked me this, but Mrs. Parsons really wants to know. I reply that I can’t tell, but that I hate the idea of leaving Biddington. I get rooted to places and it hurts tearing up roots. Of course, Scotland is not very far away, not like India but all the same it will be a foreign land to me and everybody will be strange not like moving with the regiment.

  Mrs. Parsons says, ‘I know exactly what you mean but I envy you all the same. I envy you going to new places every few years – meeting new people and making new friends. It is such an interesting thing to study people, to get inside their skins and see life from their point of view. And you can do it. Some people travel all over the worl
d and see nothing. They go about clad in a thick fog of their own making through which no impressions can penetrate. I know a girl who went to Africa and all she could tell me when she came back was that the negroes have woolly hair. I learned more about Africa from reading a travel book than that girl learned from living there for three months. You’re not like that. You can see things and laugh at them.’

  My sense of humour is so obstreperous that it is a mixed blessing, and I tell her so.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she says. ‘Laughter is a plendid disinfectant, take it with you to Westburgh, my dear.’

  ‘You sound as if you think I shall need it there,’ I remark.

  ‘You will need it wherever you go,’ she replies, ‘and just as much if you stay at home. Goodness me, I often wonder how I would get through life without a sense of humour. When things are as bad as they can be you can always find something to laugh at, even if it is only your own gloomy face in the mirror. Wait a moment,’ she adds, as I rise to go. ‘There is a passage here I want to find for you. Give me that book, child. R. L. S. has said what I mean better than I could think it.’ She turns over the pages as if she loved them and reads in her soft, husky voice:

  ‘ “The strangest thing in all man’s travelling is that he should carry about with him incongruous memories. There is no foreign land; it is the traveller only who is foreign, and now and then, by a flash of recollection, lights up the contrasts of the earth.” ’

  Her hand lies in mine a shade longer than usual as we say ‘Goodbye’ and her eyes are very bright. I say huskily that I will write to her and she replies hastily: ‘Only if you want to, my dear. Don’t make me more of a burden than I need be. That is the hardest thing of all for me to bear. Promise only to write when you feel you want to, Hester dear.’

  I promise and hurry away. In retrospect I am rather ashamed that we have talked so much about my small troubles and so little about her big ones.