Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  Tim goes off to drill his territorials after dinner, and Grace and I settle down by the fire for a ‘good talk’ (self accompanied by a bulging basket of socks and stockings full of holes and – ladders to be renovated how I hate the job!). Grace remains silent for quite two minutes which confirms me in my suspicion that something is wrong.

  Presently Grace says – as if propounding some new and intensely original idea – have I ever noticed how awfully selfish men are? I stifle an impulse to ask what Jack has been up to, and reply that I have noticed it once or twice. Grace says it is simply incredible to her and she absolutely can’t believe it – she never would have thought it possible Jack could be like that. Feel the time has now arrived to ask what Jack has been up to, and do so in appropriate words. Grace says I can have no conception of the selfishness of Jack, and even if she were to tell me I would not believe her. She elaborates the theme for several minutes which brings her to the verge of tears.

  At length I gather from Grace’s fulminations that she has not been feeling at all well, and Jack suggested that it was biliousness and advised exercise and Kruschen Salts. Then he went off to play golf taking the car, although he knew perfectly well that Grace had promised to go to tea at Mamie Carter’s and inspect the new baby. When taxed with this Jack said the walk would do Grace good. Grace was so tired when she returned from Mamie’s that she went straight to bed – but this was not all by any means. When Jack returned from golf he brought a man – a strange man that Grace had never seen in her life – and Jack came upstairs and tried to persuade Grace to come down to dinner and entertain the man. Grace refused – and don’t I think she had a perfect right to refuse when her head was splitting, all through Jack’s selfishness? So then Jack and the man had dinner together and talked and laughed the whole evening in the drawing room, which, as I know, is just underneath Grace’s bedroom – and I know also how thin the floors are at Fairlawn. How would I like to be in bed with a frightful headache and hear all that noise going on for hours?

  Reply truthfully that I would not like it at all.

  Grace then says don’t I think she was perfectly justified in giving Jack a good fright?

  Have an absurd vision of Grace bouncing out on Jack from behind a curtain, but realise immediately that of course it can’t be that kind of fright – sometimes I wish my sense of humour did not run away with me in this ridiculous fashion. Grace continues (fortunately without noticing my internal struggles) that it will serve Jack right to be anxious about her for a few days, and she wonders whether he has rung up her mother yet, and discovered she is not there, and she wonders also what he is doing now, and whether he is wondering where she is.

  From this I gather that Jack has not been told of Grace’s visit to Westburgh, and I become alarmed. I visualise myself and Tim in a similar situation and my alarm increases. All desire to laugh has left me. I am appalled. It seems to me, as I try to consider the whole matter from a strictly impartial viewpoint, that Jack has not been guilty of more than ordinary male density and perversity. He had asked the wretched man home to dinner and could hardly turn him out in the street unfed. He was also bound by the laws of hospitality (which mean considerably more to men than they do to women) to entertain the man as best he could in the absence of his wife. But it is no use putting this sane view of the matter before Grace in her present condition – Grace has only been married for a few months, whereas I have been married for twelve years. In twelve years one becomes inured to suggestions of exercise and Kruschen Salts, and even to laughter and talk in the presence of a headache. But what on earth am I to do with Grace? What on earth am I to say to her? I am so fond of them both that I must make things right somehow or other.

  I look at Grace as she sits huddled in her chair, miserable and dejected. She certainly looks far from well there is a pinched look about her – of course she has had a long journey, but that would scarcely account for it she was always so strong and full of vitality. A sudden idea strikes me, and I look at Grace again can it be that? I remember how I felt before Bryan arrived upon the scene ill and wretched and ready to take offence at the slightest provocation and my suspicion grows into a certainty. How will this affect the situation?

  Grace is at first incredulous of my suggestion, but after a few searching questions I convince her that I am right.

  ‘Oh!’ she says with eyes like saucers. ‘Oh, Hester, how wonderful! Oh Hester, is it too late to wire to Jack tonight? Can I get a train home tomorrow? Oh, Hester!’

  It is much too late to wire to Jack, and I absolutely refuse to allow her to travel home tomorrow after the long and tiring journey today; but we can wire to Jack tomorrow, and Grace can travel on Monday if she likes. So overwhelmed is she with her new responsibility that she agrees like a lamb to all my suggestions, merely saying, with a sigh, that she does not know how on earth she will manage to exist until Monday without seeing Jack. Feel this is somewhat ungrateful on Grace’s part, but am thankful she seems to have forgotten all about Jack’s delinquencies.

  Second April

  Two wires are sent off to Jack. That from Grace is long and intimate and obscure, mine merely says, ‘Grace well. Will expect you first possible train.’

  Tim wants to know what on earth it is all about and why on earth Grace has come all the way to Westburgh to tell me she is going to have a baby, when a letter would have done equally well. Fortunately, Grace is staying in bed for breakfast, so Tim’s indignation can be worked off thoroughly before he meets his guest. Tim goes on to say Grace is neurotic that’s what it is, and it will be a good thing for her to have children. Women with children have no time to be neurotic – Tim hopes that Grace will have twins.

  Telegraph boys besiege Loanhead all the morning, Grace’s wire having completely mystified her adoring husband. Am thankful Tim has gone to his headquarters, as he abhors telegrams, considering them an invention of the Evil One for wasting money. Make three separate pilgrimages to the post office to send off telegrams for Grace, as the contents are such I am ashamed to let the servants see them nor have I the face to read them over the telephone to unsympathetic operator. On the third occasion an unworthy wish invades my being – namely, that I had allowed Grace to return to Biddington today.

  Mrs. Loudon is raking her path when I return from my third journey. She is attired for gardening in an exceedingly ancient naval burberry (which probably in the dim ages belonged to her son), and a black straw hat, with a large hole in the crown; but in spite of her peculiar turn-out she still manages to look a perfect lady (this is a much abused term, but I can think of no other to describe her natural dignity).

  ‘Mrs. Christie,’ she says, coming to the gate rake in hand, ‘pardon an old woman for being inquisitive, but I’ve been wondering all the morning if there’s anything wrong. Yon telegraph – laddies always give me the shudders I’ve not been able to stand the sight of them since the war, and there have been three on your doorstep already and gracious me, here’s another!’ she exclaims, as a red bicycle comes flying up the road to stop at Loanhead gate.

  The whole thing is so ridiculous that I start to laugh weakly, and find to my horror that I can’t stop. I am seized by the arm in a firm grip, and dragged into the dining room at Holmgarth, where I am planted in a chair with a glass of cherry brandy before me.

  ‘Drink it up like a good lassie,’ says Mrs. Loudon, patting my shoulder as if I were a child. ‘There now, you’re feeling better, but don’t tell me a word about it unless you want.’

  Of course, I tell her the whole thing – it is such a relief to get it off my chest, and Mrs. Loudon is a good listener.

  ‘Well, well!’ she says comfortingly, ‘We were all young once – and when the baby’s safely here she’ll have no time for such like cantrips. Well, well! And me thinking there had been a death in the family at least!’

  Third April

  Holiday today which means that I have not got to see Cook. I rise joyfully and bathe with song. Tim says I seem in goo
d fettle this morning. Curious how seldom Tim and I are in good fettle at the same moment. Tim says we ought to go to the parish church, which is Presbyterian, of course, and repeats his favourite maxim about doing what the Romans do. Grace is in bed for breakfast, but says she will get up and come too, as she is anxious to see what it is like. I point out that we have no books, but Tim says they don’t have prayer books, but just make it up as they go along Grace says she thinks it is very clever of them.

  We impress Grace with the necessity of taking her umbrella (although the sky is cloudless), and join the throng of fashionably attired churchgoers, all of whom seem to be making their way to the Parish Church. I reflect that neither of my companions is attending church with orthodox motives, but perhaps it is better to attend with unorthodox motives than not at all.

  The verger (or whatever he is called) informs us in a loud voice that the ‘place is thrang today because Mister McPhoy is retiring’, but finds us three seats in the gallery, from which we can look down upon the Sunday hats of the assembled multitude.

  Am surprised at the amount of talking that goes on before the service starts, also at the odour of peppermint and cinnamon that emanates from the congregation, but what astonishes me most is the fact that nobody makes any attempt to kneel down during the prayers. Grace has noticed this peculiarity also, and mentions it to Tim on the way home. He replies that these people are descendants of the Covenanters, who held services on the hillside where it was often too damp to kneel down, and the custom has survived.

  After lunch Grace and I break the Sabbath by painting a seat in a secluded corner of the garden. We have nearly finished the job when Annie approaches and says breathlessly that she has been looking everywhere for us as Colonel and Mrs. Walker have called. I realise that this is the colonel of Tim’s territorial battalion and his wife upon whom Tim wished me to make a good impression. Grace offers to entertain the Walkers while I remove the ravages of the green paint from my person. She points out that it is not so important for her to make a good impression, which of course is true. I advise her, however, to remove green paint from her nose before entering the drawing room. Grace says – Why? The Walkers will merely think a green nose is the latest fashion from London. Have no time to argue with Grace – seize the turpentine bottle and fly upstairs to the bathroom.

  When I am at last in a presentable condition, I go into the drawing room and find that Grace’s nose is the usual colour – or perhaps slightly more pink – and am glad to think she has taken my advice. Colonel Walker seems quite pleased with my deputy, but Mrs. Walker looks slightly peevish. I confine my attentions to the latter, and talk feverishly about the first thing that comes into my head, which happens to be Epstein’s method of sculpture – an article upon the subject having appeared in the morning’s papers. The choice is unfortunate, as Mrs. Walker never reads the Sunday papers, and has a confused idea that the sculptor and the inventor of relativity are one and the same man. Feel that the best thing to do is to drop the subject.

  At this moment a diversion is created by Betty, who appears at the door with a crimson face and says that the Man Who Lives Next Door has stolen her ball the new one that I got her at Woolworth’s. Suggest that she should say ‘How do you do?’ in the approved manner before explaining herself further. Betty shakes hands rapidly with the visitors and says that she was playing with her ball in the garden, and it went over the fence, and the Man Who Lives Next Door said he wouldn’t give it to her because it was Sunday, and will I come at once and tell him he is to. The situation is delicate as I have no idea whether the Walkers share the views of the Man Who Lives Next Door as to the wickedness of playing ball on Sunday, or whether their observance of the Sabbath merely consists of banning newspapers printed on this day of rest. I hedge feebly by suggesting that she should find some more fitting occupation for Sunday afternoon and assure her that she will get her ball tomorrow. ‘But you never said I wasn’t to play with it,’ she points out, ‘and I’ve got to go to school tomorrow. Annie says the man is a thief to keep my ball, and I think so too.’

  Mrs. Walker’s face remains sphinx-like during this exhibition of parental weakness, and I feel sure that any impression she may be receiving is not so good as Tim would wish. Fortunately Betty realises that I will do nothing about her ball, and goes away without any further remarks upon the subject. Soon after, the Walkers depart in a large Armstrong-Siddeley, and Grace and I relapse into chairs thoroughly exhausted by our efforts to be entertaining.

  ‘Hester,’ says Grace suddenly, ‘Don’t you think Hamish is a nice name? Hamish McDougall sounds well; please remember to tell Jack that I wanted the baby called Hamish.’

  I suggest mildly that the information would come better from Grace herself, whereupon she replies that she will not be here – she is quite sure she will die – and will I remember her words when she is gone and be the baby’s godmother and help poor Jack to bring it up. ‘And oh Hester!’ she continues, ‘how lovely it will be when Hamish is grown up and we can go about together I do hope he will be fair like Jack and awfully good at cricket, and we shall go to Lord’s and see him play for Eton I think I shall be sick with fright when he goes in to bat.’

  Feel it would be tactless to point out that if Grace is dead she won’t be able to go to Lord’s (or at any rate will not be sick, not having – – – a body) so I merely reply that it is sure to be an anxious moment for her when Hamish goes in to bat, and that I hope his godmother will be asked to join the party on that auspicious occasion.

  Jack arrives by the late train. I take him up to Grace’s room and shut the door upon their transports of affection and delight at their reunion.

  Tim says he is going to bed, and does so. I remain in the dining room to feed the traveller when his ardour shall have abated sufficiently to allow him to partake of sustenance. After about an hour Jack appears with a dazed but rapturous expression, and says Grace is simply wonderful. She has forgiven him and everything is all right. He thinks it shows a most wonderful character to be able to forgive like that – Grace’s character is wonderful. I can have no conception – not having lived with Grace – what a wonderful girl she is. So brave, and good, and altogether wonderful. By this time I am so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. Fortunately Jack is too intent on extolling his wife to notice my smothered yawns. It is one o’clock before I manage to get rid of the man and crawl into bed more dead than alive.

  My last thought is one of inhospitable thankfulness that our guests are going away tomorrow.

  Fourth April

  Our guests announce their intention of going south by the midday train, and of spending tomorrow in London, as Jack wants to buy a hat for Grace. Try to remember whether Tim ever felt he wanted to buy anything for me in London, but cannot recollect any occasion of the sort. Grace breakfasts in bed, waited on hand and foot by her adoring mate.

  After Tim has departed Jack attaches himself to me. He is still full of admiration for his wife, and the only way I can shake him off is by visiting the kitchen, whereupon Jack takes the local paper and vanishes into the garden with it. I find him half an hour later reclining upon the garden seat Grace and I painted yesterday. The paint is not yet dry upon the seat, and Jack has the greatest difficulty in tearing himself from its hospitable embrace. ‘Good Heavens, Hester!’ he says, trying to look at his back and failing in the attempt, ‘how was I to know? Why didn’t you put Wet Paint on the beastly thing?’ Reply hysterically that I did put wet paint on the beastly thing – Grace and I spent most of Sunday afternoon putting wet paint on the beastly thing.

  Jack is too annoyed about his new summer suiting to see the joke. We retire to the bathroom, and Jack removes his trousers (the only ones he has brought with him), while I do my best to clean them with turpentine. The paint comes off remarkably well, but the smell of the turpentine remains. Grace says it is horrible, and requests Jack to sit as far away from her as possible; upon which Jack says she is very unreasonable, and that it is not hi
s fault, and that he does not know what people in the train will think, and Grace replies that anybody with any sense would have seen that the paint was wet.

  Fortunately the arrival of the taxi puts a stop to this unprofitable discussion. Grace hugs me and says, ‘Hester, you really are – a brick don’t forget about Hamish and being his godmother, will you?’ And our guests depart in an odour of turpentine.

  Tim and I go out and try to obliterate the outline of Jack’s form from the garden seat, which we find is difficult if not impossible. Tim says it is a tiring thing having visitors in the house unless, of course, your establishment is run on the lines of Charters Towers, in which case you need not see more of them than you want, and he wonders if it is true about Morley sending in his papers.

  Fifth April

  Am late for breakfast owing to lassitude engendered by the emotional crisis which has taken place in our house. Find Tim in an irritable mood he has opened by mistake an account of mine from Madame Harcourt at Biddington for a New Evening Dress, which I got at her sale before leaving Biddington on the strength of the myriads of dinners and balls predicted for me at Westburgh by Nora Watt. I have not had the moral courage to confess this extravagance to Tim, and my cowardliness has found me out. Tim says what on earth do I want a new dress for, when my cupboard upstairs is full of perfectly good ones? Couldn’t I have got an old one done up if I really need it? Explain hastily that it was a sale and I got the dress very cheap. Tim says there is probably a crab in it somewhere if it was cheap. He becomes exceedingly gloomy about financial affairs in general. There are rumours of a drop in pay which is said to be due to the decrease in cost of living. Have not noticed the latter myself, and say so with some force. Tim has not noticed it either. He waxes eloquent on the subject of tariffs.