When I am halfway up the hill I hear the red-haired man calling to me, but decide to pretend that I don’t hear him. Nothing will induce me to re-enter the ‘Old Manse’ and face the rats. A bus is approaching, I wave to it wildly and jump on board. The red-haired man having run after me all the way up the hill arrives a few seconds later, follows me into the bus, and hands me my umbrella which I have left behind in my anxiety to escape. He looks at me pityingly and is obviously under the impression that I am idiotic as well as deaf. Then he bows to me gravely and leaps off the bus as it starts on its way to Westburgh.
Thirteenth February
Visit our Mr. Horder who receives us as complete strangers, and says to Tim, ‘Oh! Ah! Mr. McFarlane, I think.’
Tim replies that his name is Christie.
‘Quite, quite,’ says Mr. Horder, ‘and what can I do for you, Mr. um ar Christie?’
Tim suggests mildly that he might find us a house. Mr. Horder calls for his book and after some search during which a lot of papers and photographs fall onto the floor offers us a shooting lodge in Argyllshire with twelve bedrooms. He seems hurt when we do not close with it immediately, and assures us that it is a real bargain at fifty pounds a month. Tim enumerates our modest requirements for the fourth time (not including letters) whereupon Mr. Horder offers us a flat over a butcher’s shop with three rooms and kitchen, and adds that the owner is willing to instal a bath should the tenant so desire.
Tim gets up and says that it is no use wasting Mr. Horder’s valuable time–
At this moment a young man comes in and says mysteriously to Mr. Horder, ‘What aboot the Mackenzies?’
‘Oh! Ah! The Mackenzies,’ says Mr. Horder.
‘The Mackenzies are wanting to let,’ says the young man persuasively.
‘Oh! Ah! The Mackenzies are wanting to let right enough.’
‘They might try the Mackenzies.’
‘Aye – they might try the Mackenzies.’
Ask for particulars concerning the Mackenzies, and find that their house seems to tally exactly with our requirements, and that it is to be found at Kiltwinkle which is the least obnoxious suburb which we have visited. All this has to be dragged from Mr. Horder, who seems most unwilling that we should visit the Mackenzies, and puts all the obstacles that he can possibly think of in the way of our doing so. ‘And, anyway, you can’t see it till Saturday,’ he says at last. ‘Saturday’s the day, and Mrs. Mackenzie is a most particular lady.’
Tim points out that today is Saturday.
Finally, we wring from Mr. Horder an unwilling admission that the name of the house is ‘Loanhead’, and make our escape into the street where the rain has started to come down again in the quiet, hopeless fashion peculiar to Westburgh.
Ask Tim if he can imagine why Mr. Horder does not want us to see the Mackenzies. Tim says that it is probably Just His Way. Reflect on the many mysterious ways of doing business, until a woman nearly spikes me in the eye with her umbrella and so diverts my thoughts.
In the afternoon we take a bus for Kiltwinkle, and after several abortive enquiries (made of complete strangers to the district and congenital idiots who fail to understand our English speech) we discover a boy who says we are to ‘Go west for twa hundred yairds, and then sooth up the brae, and it’s the second on the left.’
Tim says he has left his compass at home, whereupon the boy offers to lead us to Loanhead – he obviously thinks we are not all there, and is sorry for us.
Loanhead is a square, grey, stone house in a good-sized garden – a great many trees stand about it, and all are dripping wet. Am agreeably surprised to find that the house answers more or less to the agent’s description.
Mr. Mackenzie is exceedingly thin with a drooping walrus moustache. Mrs. Mackenzie is fat and florid and inclined to be skittish. They show us over their house with great pride and assure us that they have never let it before, and are only doing so now because they want to travel – or, at any rate, Mrs. Mackenzie wants to travel.
Ask politely whether they are thinking of going abroad, to which Mr. Mackenzie replies that ‘England is far enough.’ There is, however, a gleam in Mrs. Mackenzie’s small eyes which makes me think she is determined on a further flight.
I have made up my mind that Loanhead must do (chiefly because I feel that I cannot bear to look at another house), but I am horrified to find that Tim looks more and more gloomy as we follow the Mackenzies from room to room, and objects unreasonably to the size of the bathroom, the wallpaper in the dining room, the old-fashioned kitchen range, strange smell in the pantry, and various other details (so different from the extravagant praise lavished on the hovels which we have already inspected).
Mr. Mackenzie asks us to go and look at the garage, so we don our waterproofs and emerge from the house. Tim takes the opportunity, while Mr. Mackenzie is looking for the key, to seize my arm and whisper, ‘What about it, Hester?’
‘Take it,’ I reply like the teeny tiny woman with the teeny tiny bone.
‘Leave it all to me,’ Tim hisses.
I leave it to Tim, and after some beating round the bush we find ourselves possessed of Loanhead for a period of one year from the 12th March. Mrs. Mackenzie says coyly that she hopes we are not ‘supersteetious’, and I realise today is the thirteenth.
Business over, we are regaled with tea and polite conversation. Mrs. MacKenzie offers to leave her ‘gurll’ to help us out on arrival, an offer which I thankfully accept. The girl is summoned, and is seen to be young and pretty, except for her teeth, which are dreadful beyond words. She is evidently very anxious to be ‘taken on’. ‘This is me. Will I do?’ she seems to say behind the hopefully arranged curtain of her face.
The rain stops as we leave the house, and the street lamps twinkle merrily. Westburgh suddenly seems a friendlier, kindlier sort of place.
I ask Tim why he was so gloomy when the Mackenzies were showing us round the house, to which he replies, ‘Never crack up a horse you want to buy.’
Am astounded at his duplicity.
Fourteenth February
Spend the day in bed writing letters and reading Rob Roy in the hopes that this will improve my historical knowledge. Get up for dinner and am informed during fish course that a lady has called to see me. She was told that I was at dinner, but can’t wait.
Can it be Nora’s sister, the great Doreen McTurk? Suggest this to Tim, who says it is a queer hour for anyone to call, but Westburgh is a queer place and I had better go and see.
Find a stern-looking woman of uncertain age sitting beneath a palm tree in the hall. She remarks that she has come in answer to my advertisement for ‘cook general’, but that she Doesn’t Wash. Reply hastily that that does not matter at all. Go into intimate details of health and experience with some trepidation, but have not the moral courage to enquire as to age. Cook says she has ‘been with Miss Clarke two years’, and suggests that I should ring up Miss C. immediately as she has several ladies to interview if I don’t suit her.
This suggestion seems strange to me, but I comply with it and learn that Jean McGinty is quite perfect in every way and an excellent cook. Make special enquiries with regard to her temper, and am still dubious about it in spite of Miss Clarke’s assurances as to its sweetness and reliability. As I can find no reason to do otherwise, I engage cook to come on the 13th March and return to my fish, which is stone cold.
Tim asks what on earth I have been doing as everyone else has finished dinner. Reply triumphantly that I have engaged a cook. Tim says she probably drinks.
Fifteenth February
Receive letters from Betty and Miss Hardcastle.
The latter informs me that all goes well. That the weather has been inclement. That Betty’s galoshes are worn out. That Mrs. Benson very kindly asked Betty to go to tea, but the dear child did not seem to want to go. That she hopes we have been successful in our quest. That she hopes I will be returning soon, as the servants are apt to get out of hand when I am away, and they seem to g
o out at all hours of the day. That several of the window cords have broken which makes it extremely unsafe (not to say dangerous) to open the windows – she has pointed this out to Annie without any result. That milk pudding is doubtless very nourishing and sustaining, but one is apt to tire of it if eaten every day. And that she remains mine, sincerely, Greta Hardcastle.
Betty writes – ‘Dear Mummy – Hardy ses I have been norty but she won’t tell so I’m telling. Hardy had her sister to lunsh and it was milk pudding again. Mrs. Benson arst me to tea but I sed no and Hardy sed it was rood. I mite of been rooder if I had gorn. Hardy ses my sums is bad. We had dog in a blangit for pudding today. Hardy dussent like it either. Annie is cross with Bollings becos he is cross with her for going to Skottland but I think they’ll make it up dont you. Good by and luve xxx Betty.’
Sixteenth February
Return to Biddington by train as Tim is remaining to Learn the Ropes from previous adjutant before he goes. Tim comes to see me off and buys me a Queen newspaper in an access of tenderness induced by my departure. Just as the train is starting a young man gets into my compartment. Tim suggests in a whisper that I should move into a ‘Ladies Only’, next door, which already contains two women and three children. Refuse unconditionally to change, after which I worry all day in case anything should happen to Tim while I am away (he might be run over, or poisoned, or die of pneumonia – knowing the traffic in the streets, the food at Brown’s Hotel, and the peculiar climate of the neighbourhood, all three deaths seem possible) and I have refused his last request.
Apart from the groanings of conscience the journey is very pleasant. Young man also very pleasant. Discover that he knows Richard – they were in the same battalion in Kitchener’s during the war. We lunch together and I find myself telling him about the children. I stop at once (because I hate women who talk about their offspring) and switch the subject to books. We discuss Moby Dick which we both adore. He gives me a tip for the Grand National. We exchange cards, and part at Euston with expressions of mutual esteem.
Arrive very late at Biddington Miss Hardcastle is waiting up for me in a pink silk kimono with embroidered flowers. Feel slightly aggrieved because I can’t afford such a nice one, but reflect that anyhow it does not become her – in fact it makes her look more like a disgruntled camel than ever. Miss H. says in a mysterious voice that ‘Betty is in bed’. The hour being 11.30 p.m. I am not surprised and say so. Miss H. continues that she knows I must be Tired after my Long Journey, and that it is really nothing serious – at least she hopes it is not.
I realise that she is trying to tell me that Betty is ill, and demand all details immediately. Discover that Betty has been very sick. Rush upstairs to her room and find her hot and flushed and muttering in her sleep. Make up my mind never to leave Betty again as she invariably gets ill when I am away. Am furious with Miss H., but try to disguise this beneath a polite and calm exterior. Miss H. points out in a hurt voice that she could not help Betty overeating herself on cream buns presented to her in a clandestine manner by Bollings. Feel there is more to this than meets the eye, but am too tired to pursue the subject tonight.
Seventeenth February
Lie awake for hours worrying about Betty, but manage to drop off to sleep at five o’clock or thereabouts. Am awakened at seven by Betty bounding into my room full of vim and life, and apparently none the worse of her sick attack. Am delighted to see the dear child looking so well, but can’t help wishing she did not waken quite so early.
Betty hugs me, and says, ‘Oh, Mummy, have you found a house? Is there a swing in the garden? You do look old this morning!’
Reply that I feel at least a hundred years old, and that I have found a house, but there is no swing in the garden. Betty’s face falls, so I rashly promise to see what can be done about a swing. She is overjoyed, and tells me that I do not look nearly so old as a hundred; only about sixty or so.
She then hugs me again and says it is lovely that I am home, and shall she tell me what Bollings said yesterday? Bollings said that the Old Girl had heard about the cheering at the Christmas Tree, and she wasn’t half in a wax. I beseech Betty to speak respectfully of the Commanding Officer’s wife, and she replies, ‘Oh, but I do. I was only telling you what Bollings said to Annie. And Bollings says she was in a wax because she likes all the cheering that’s going herself. And Bollings says they won’t half cheer next year when she does go.’
I ask innocently if that was why Bollings gave her the cream buns, and Betty replies, ‘Oh, no – that was because I made Annie be nice to Bollings, and they kissed each other. So then Bollings bought me the cream buns in a paper bag and I was sick.’
Miss Hardcastle very polite and quiet at breakfast; follows me into the morning room where I am wrestling with the Bills which have accumulated alarmingly while I have been away, and says that she does not feel that I trust her now in the way in which she is used to being trusted. Lady Hallingford with whom she had the Honour of Residing for Six Months used to Trust her Implicitly. But she Feels that I don’t Trust her – I give her that impression. She is very sensitive to anything of that kind and would prefer to Tender her Resignation unless I can assure her that she is Entirely Mistaken. Adds that Betty has been exceedingly troublesome while I was away, but that she is aware that it is no use saying anything about that, as I am never pleased when she has to complain of the children.
I ask how she could possibly expect me to be pleased to hear the children were troublesome. But that of course if Betty has been naughty she must be punished. Miss Hardcastle does not reply to this except to say tearfully that without perfect trust we can do nothing.
Problem whether to patch up Miss Hardcastle and take her to Westburgh or to make a clean break and ask her to leave before we go. Very awkward to have Betty on my hands during the move, but awkward also to have to nurse Miss Hardcastle’s wounded feelings while I am so busy.
Fortunately the telephone rings, so decision can be put aside for the moment. It is Nora to ask how I like Westburgh.
Nineteenth February
Am summoned to the kitchen to comfort Katie who has been insulted by the butcher’s boy. Find Katie in tears. After some persuasion Katie reveals the fact that the butcher’s boy on being asked if he had a tongue immediately put his out at her. Decide to treat the incident lightly, and point out to Katie that this was merely boyish ebullition. Katie replies through the tears that I am right and he is a pollution – that’s what he is. Take no notice of this, but continue to persuade Katie that boys will be boys and a joke is a joke, and that the butcher boy meant nothing disrespectful.
Katie is actually drying her tears when Betty dances into the kitchen, and seizes my hand, shouting, ‘Oh, mummy, you must come and see the picture of Katie that the butcher’s boy has been drawing on the back gate. I know it’s meant for Katie because the eyes are squinty.’
I realise at once that the situation is beyond me and retire hastily, murmuring that I hear the telephone. By a strange coincidence the telephone bell rings at that moment – it is Grace to ask if I will come to lunch today as Jack is bringing three Antiquities. On being asked for further particulars Grace replies that the Antiquities have been digging for bones and things in the Roman meadow, my dear, and that I must come and help. I realise that my help is required to entertain the guests, not to dig for bones, and accept gratefully as I feel it will be a relief to get away from the house and domestic troubles for a few hours.
I find the Antiquities (as Grace persists in calling them) seated in the drawing room at Fairlawn. Two of them are aged, bearded, and spectacled, but the third is young and has twinkling eyes and broad shoulders, and I suspect that he is included in the party to do the digging. From the conversation, I gather that Jack McDougall found a Roman vase when his company was practising trenching in the meadow, and that these gentlemen have come from London to examine the site and see what else they can find.
Grace produces cocktails which she assures us are ‘harml
ess’, but mine as usual goes straight to my head and makes everything look misty. The door (which I have got to walk out of when lunch is announced) seems miles away. I manage to find it, however, and am so pleased with my success that I join boldly in the conversation which is erudite in the extreme. We discuss Roman remains (a subject of which I know little).
With the pudding course the talk veers from Roman remains to Neanderthal Man (a subject of which I know less). Grace (who has evidently been studying the encyclopedia so as to have something suitable to discuss with her guests) remarks with great gravity that she ‘wonders what can have happened to Neanderthal Man’. Jack says, ‘What’s that, darling? I didn’t know you were expecting anyone else.’
The oldest Antiquity whose beard is quite white (or was, previous to the tomato soup) pricks up his ears, and gives it as his opinion that N. M. died out on account of some infectious disease. The second oldest Antiquity thinks he was eliminated by climatic conditions. They wrangle acidly for a few minutes quoting various authorities to strengthen their opinions.
By this time my cocktail has settled down and I feel big and brave and beautiful. I suggest brightly that there was only one Neanderthal Man – that he was a freak, like Mr. S – , and that he probably died of old age.
Suggestion not well received.
After lunch the Antiquities go off to dig and I spend a pleasant afternoon with Grace. Return home with domestic worries in proper proportion.
Twentieth February
Having been invited to lunch with the Bensons on account of grass-widowhood, I put on my best hat, take my umbrella (a habit formed in Westburgh) and sally forth. On my way to the barracks I hear martial music, and stand on the edge of the pavement in company with about twenty errand boys with baskets, half a dozen nurses with prams, and a nondescript crowd of loafers to watch the battalion pass on its return from what has obviously been a route march. Can’t help thinking how well the officers look in uniform compared to their usual appearance in mufti. Colonel Benson looks splendid on his white horse. The men are marching with a lovely swing of kilts. The pipes are playing ‘The Barren Rocks of Aden’. The sun shines, the drums clatter, it is all splendid. Feel quite maudlin at the thought of leaving the regiment for three years. Pipes always make me cry, and today is no exception to the rule.
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Page 9
