The evening passes swiftly with discussions about our plans. We shall have to borrow money from the bank as the recent move has swallowed up our tiny nest egg, but this is less worrying than it might be owing to Tim’s rise in pay. Tim will go south in Cassandra, and deposit Bryan at school. Cook is leaving anyway, and Maggie can stay on with the new tenants, while Annie comes with us to Avielochan to look after Betty. Everything seems to fit like a well-made jigsaw puzzle. How lovely it will be to have a rest from all the small household worries which afflict the just and to wander through the pine forests on the hillsides which Mrs. Loudon has made so real to me and, after that, Biddington to look forward to.
Am just writing up my diary by the window it is still quite light though after ten o’clock. Tim is standing on the garden path with his hands in his pockets, smoking his bedtime pipe the smoke hangs in the air in a blue cloud, and drifts up to my nostrils with the mellow tang which seems so much a part of Tim. He is so deep in thought that I cannot resist having a shot at him with my bedroom slipper, and by great good luck manage to hit him on the head. He picks it up and throws it back at me in an instant. I make a grab for it but the wretched thing falls into the balcony outside my window, and I have to lean halfway out of the window to get it. ‘Don’t fall out, you ass!’ says Tim, chuckling.
At this moment I look up and see the Man Who Lives Next Door standing on his doorstep watching my antics, and disapproving (I feel sure) of my flowered-silk dressing gown. Probably his own wife wears one of red flannel, and most certainly has never been seen leaning out of the window in it – The Awful Carrying On of Those Army People – he is thinking.
I dive backwards into my room and pull the curtains, and Tim comes galloping up the stairs to see what on earth is the matter. Of course, I throw a pillow at him, which catches him fair and square and nearly takes his breath away. After that he seizes me round the waist and we waltz madly round the room.
Feel ten years younger after this absurd performance, and decide that I don’t care a button what the Man Who Lives Next Door thinks of me – these little idiocies are the salt of life.
June
First June
The morning dawns bright and warm, sunshine falls in golden swathes on the faded carpets of Loanhead. The house is filled with the bustle of departure. Gloom descends upon me as I dress, and I follow Tim to the bathroom where he is shaving to tell him that I wish I were going south with him.
‘Well, you can’t get out of it now,’ he replies, scraping fiercely at his chin. ‘Besides, you need a spot of leave and you’re sure to enjoy it when you get there. I only wish I had a chance of spending a fortnight in the Highlands. You can think of me grilling in the heat at Biddington and toiling and moiling to get my company into trim I bet that ass Neil Watt has made a complete hash of it while I’ve been away.’
I am in no whit comforted by the conversation. Of course I have been looking forward to my visit to the Highlands, but the scattering of my family fills me with sadness and a strange fear. Soon we shall be hundreds of miles apart Tim at Biddington with the regiment, Bryan at school, and Betty and I with Mrs. Loudon at Avielochan.
A letter in Mrs. Loudon’s firm hand is waiting for me on the breakfast table – perhaps it is to say she cannot have us after all. This would have been a disaster yesterday, but today it would be a reprieve. I scan it eagerly, and find that it is no reprieve, but merely confirmation of exile. In other words an itinerary of our journey, and a list of various places where we shall have to ‘change’. It also contains the news that Mrs. Loudon’s son – a Lieutenant-Commander in His Majesty’s Navy – has arrived unexpectedly on leave, and that the house party is further augmented by a cousin (about whom no information is given). The letter adds to my gloom. I feel convinced that I shall be de trop in this family party, and that Mrs. Loudon is now regretting her impulsive invitation to Betty and me. (I am frequently beset with the uncomfortable conviction that people don’t really want me and have only asked me from a stern sense of duty. I am told this is really a complex, and probably has its origin in some forgotten episode of my childhood. Complex or no, it seizes upon me at inopportune moments, and makes my life a misery. Often, when bidden to lunch or tea with hospitable friends, it descends upon me suddenly when I am standing upon the doorstep, and wages a battle royal with my common sense, so that I can hardly force myself to ring the bell and enquire if Mrs. So-and-so is at home. This subconscious self of mine insists with devilish plausibility that Mrs. So-and-so did not really want me to come, has now quite forgotten that she asked me, and will be disagreeably surprised when she sees me walk in.)
I point out to Tim (who is now busy stoking up for his journey, with bacon and eggs) that I could send a wire to Mrs. Loudon and tell her I can’t come after all.
‘Don’t be silly, Hester,’ he says. ‘You’ll enjoy it, and it will do you good. Besides, where would you go? You know how expensive hotels are. We ought to start soon if Bryan is ready.’
It is all quite true and sensible. How I wish I were not tortured by vague fears! I retrieve Bryan from the garden, where he has been taking tender farewell of his hedgehog, and pack him into the car. ‘There you are!’ exclaims Tim, with a cheerfulness which I feel is slightly artificial. ‘All ready, Bryan? Got the maps?’
Bryan has got the maps safely, and is very proud of having them in his possession. He has also got a compass, and explains to me that this will come in very handy if they should lose their way. As long as they keep due south they can’t go wrong, Bryan says. I have a sudden vision of the car rushing due south, over fields and through hedges like a miniature tank, which makes me feel quite hysterical.
There is a slight lull in the activities after their departure, and I become conscious of an empty feeling in my interior – have I or have I not had any breakfast? I decide that I have not, and repair to the dining room, to remedy the omission, only to find that breakfast has been cleared away. Perhaps I did have breakfast after all, the empty feeling may be due to Tim’s departure and not – as I had supposed – to lack of nourishment.
I pay Cook and Maggie and present them with their insurance cards, duly stamped. Maggie says she hopes the new lady will be as nice (this is a typically Scottish compliment and I drink it down with smiles of gratitude, and shake her warmly by the hand). Cook says her hands are wet, and we had better be away if we’re thinking of getting the train.
A few minutes later Betty and I, accompanied by the faithful Annie, are on our way to the station in the taxi.
Annie has arrayed herself in a thick black coat with a fur collar, and is obviously prepared for the climatic rigours of the north. ‘Your face is very red, Annie,’ says Betty suddenly. Fortunately Annie is not in the least disturbed by the personal nature of the remark. She replies, amiably, that it’s the heat, and I realise afresh that Annie is an ideal custodian for a child.
Our station wears an air of leisure quite unknown to those bustling termini where the trains run southward. The porter greets us with a smile and asks if we are ‘away for our holidays’. He discusses at length the merits of different carriages and, eventually, deposits Betty and me in an empty compartment, with Annie next door.
‘You call me if – you know what, ma’am,’ says Annie mysteriously, as she disappears, and I remember – with a shudder of horror – my last journey with Betty, and send up a silent prayer that Annie’s kind ministrations may not be needed.
The train is late in starting, having been delayed by the arrival of a large family with mountains of luggage. Nobody minds the delay, there is a happy-go-lucky feeling about the whole affair; the very barrows seem to grumble along in a placid way, quite different from the querulous creak of the ordinary station barrow. I can imagine the engine looking round like a fatherly old horse: ‘You all ready, people?’ it enquires kindly. ‘Quite sure you haven’t left anything behind? Well then, off we go.’
And off we do go.
Quite soon we are out of the environs o
f the town; cruising along amongst rolling hills. Whitewashed cottages nestle in green hollows. Cattle standing knee-deep in reeds lift their slow heads and gaze at us with surprise.
Betty eats an orange and discourses in her usual practical manner scenery has no charms for her.
After about an hour she asks if we are nearly there, and I reply firmly that we shall not be there for hours and hours.
‘But we’ve been hours and hours already,’ she says, ‘and we were in Scotland when we started so we must be nearly there. Scotland’s quite small on the map.’ I decide that it is now time to produce some picture papers, which I have hidden in my bag to beguile the monotony of the journey for Betty and ensure a little peace for myself. Betty seizes upon them eagerly, and forgets all about the dimensions of Scotland in her enjoyment of the antics of Mr. Rhino’s scholars.
We cross a deep river with a rumble of wheels, and immediately the scenery changes and becomes wild. The rolling hills give place to mountains, which stand back in sullen splendour and allow us to pass. The cattle become sheep, snowy lambs with black wobbly legs and cheeky little black faces interrupt their breakfast to stare at the train. Streams leap down the hillsides amongst the rocks, and dive beneath our wheels to emerge on the other side in beds of gravel and yellow stones. The gorse is like a shower of minted sovereigns, flung down with a careless hand as far as eye can reach.
Now the land falls away, we creep along the shoulder of a hill, and a vista of green valley is disclosed. Farmhouses, with their patchwork of fields, are scattered hither and thither, and on the farther slopes of the mountains, a few wind-swept cottages stand amongst sparse trees.
Suddenly the spell is broken, the door of our compartment is pushed ajar, and through the aperture appears the fat white face of Mrs. McTurk. Of all the people in the world Mrs. McTurk is, perhaps, the one I least want to see. I can’t help wondering what she is doing in the train, and how she has found me. She must be – I suppose – one of those peculiar people who walk about in trains. Why couldn’t she have remained peacefully where she was put by the porter amidst her own belongings in (I have no doubt) a comfortable first-class compartment?
‘Is this really you?’ she says.
I reply that it is. The woman has the knack of saying things which invite a fatuous answer.
‘Well I never!’ she says.
I fix a false smile upon my countenance, whereupon she insinuates her cumbrous body through the door, and sits down beside Betty.
‘So you are going north for a holiday,’ she says.
Betty bounces up and down on the seat. ‘Do you know Mummie?’ she cries excitedly. ‘Fancy you knowing Mummie! I thought Mummie didn’t know anybody in Kiltwinkle. Of course I knew lots of children at school, but it was awfully dull for Mummy. Mrs. Watt said there would be lots of parties, and Mummie bought a new dress, and then nobody asked her.’
I plunge wildly into the conversation, wishing, not for the first time, that Betty were shy with strangers.
‘How wonderful the gorse is!’ I exclaim rapturously.
It is unfortunate that at this moment we happen to be creeping through a narrow ravine strewn with boulders. Mrs. McTurk looks out of the window and then at me in surprise.
‘This gorge,’ I scream, above the roar of the train. ‘So wild and rocky.’
‘Oh, I thought you said gorse,’ says Mrs. McTurk.
Her voice is admirably suited for conversation in a railway train, its strident note can be heard with ease. Bridges leap at us with a roar, mountains peer in at the windows and vanish, but above all these earsplitting noises comes the strident voice in futile discourse.
‘And where are you bound for?’ she asks with a toothy smile.
I am about to reply truthfully to her question when I suddenly remember that Mrs. Loudon ‘can’t abide the woman’, and remember also the diplomatic attempts of Mrs. McTurk to procure an introduction to my prospective hostess. How awkward it will be if Mrs. Turk’s destination is within motoring distance of Avielochan. It is unlikely, of course, but unlikely things sometimes happen, especially if you don’t want them to. On the whole I feel that it will be wiser to conceal the fact of our visit to Mrs. Loudon.
‘How is Mr. McTurk?’ I shout.
My red herring is successful, and for some minutes Mrs. McTurk is to be heard describing the tortures of her husband’s rheumatism. ‘And Nora,’ I scream, when Mr. McTurk’s symptoms show signs of waning. ‘Have you heard from her lately?’
‘Poor souls!’ says Mrs. McTurk. ‘They are away to India in the autumn.’
‘Nora will enjoy India,’ I bellow.
‘That’s to be seen,’ replies Mrs. McTurk. ‘It’s very unsettling for the poor girl and bound to ruin her complexion. Mr. McTurk and I were just saying it’s a fortunate thing they’re not burdened with children, or we should feel obliged to offer them a home at Pinelands. I’m sure I don’t know what I should do if I had to move about from one place to another like you soldiers’ wives. We’ve been at Pinelands ten years now – ever since our marriage – and I’m sure I don’t know what I would do if we had to leave. There were only three greenhouses when we went, and the garage was most inconvenient for the Rolls, but Mr. McTurk soon altered all that – and he put in three bathrooms, and built a billiard room – Mr. McTurk has spent thousands of pounds on the place.
I now ask with well-feigned interest how the Rolls is rolling – and feel annoyed with myself the next moment. ‘What a hypocrite you are!’ says that other Hester who dwells with me in the same skin, and causes me endless trouble. ‘You know perfectly well you would be delighted to hear the Rolls had come to a bad end. Why do you try to please people, even when you dislike them as you dislike Mrs. McTurk?’ I have no excuse to give for my conduct but am fitly punished for my falseness by having to listen to the detailed history of the Rolls, the Alvis, and the Armstrong-Siddeley, and to the various reasons why none of them is at liberty to convey Mrs. McTurk to Avielochan, where she is to join her gilded spouse for three weeks’ fishing.
‘Oh, how funny!’ cries Betty, jumping up and down in the manner usual to her when moved by excitement. ‘Are you going to stay with Mrs. Loudon too?’
Alas for all my efforts! The cat is now out of the bag beyond recall. Mrs. McTurk’s small eyes gleam as she replies that she is going to stay at the hotel, but it is not far from the house which Mrs. Loudon always occupies, and it will be very nice to see us there.
‘You must come and dine with us at the hotel some evening,’ she adds hospitably. ‘When will you come?’
I reply with haste that there is a large house party at Burnside, and I do not know my hostess’s plans, so it would be useless for me to make any engagements.
‘Oh well, you can send me a note when you get there and see what’s on,’ says Mrs. McTurk. ‘It doesn’t matter a bit how many people there are, Mr. McTurk will be quite glad to see them all any day will suit Mr. McTurk and I,’ she adds blandly.
The worst has now happened, and there is no further need for me to keep up the conversation, nor to try and make my voice audible above the roar of the train. I murmur that I have a headache – which I discover afterwards is absolutely true – and relapse into my corner. Mrs. McTurk finds me dull and goes away.
We change at various small stations with unpronounceable names, and arrive at Inverquill about teatime. This is the station for Avielochan, and I am relieved and delighted to see Mrs. Loudon’s tall spare figure, clad in its usual shabby fashion, waiting on the platform. For the last hour I have been torturing myself with conjectures as to what I shall do if she is not there. But there she is, the – same strange, shabby, dignified creature who was so kind to me at Kiltwinkle. She is accompanied by a tall dark man, easily recognisable as her son. His resemblance to his mother is striking, and he has the unmistakable brand of NAVY stamped upon his clean-shaven countenance. Betty takes instantaneous possession of him (she has a habit of appropriating men, which, looking to the future, is som
ewhat disquieting) and announces to him confidentially, but with great pride, that she was not sick at all. He congratulates her gravely upon her achievement.
‘I think it was because the train went along nice and quietly,’ Betty says. ‘I like a nice quiet train that stops a lot – don’t you?’
‘That depends on whether I want to get there quickly or not,’ replies Mr. Loudon patiently.
Fortunately for me Mrs. McTurk is too busy marshalling her stupendous array of luggage to be troublesome to anybody except her porter. Our modest suitcases are disentangled from the pile, and we pack into Mrs. Loudon’s roomy Austin for the last stage of our journey.
The road is glaring white in the afternoon sunshine, golden gorse gleams on the hills. Pine woods, carpeted with brown needles and full of dark shadows and golden lights, creep up to the road’s edge, and then retreat in soldierly order, leaving the curling white ribbon bare and sunlit as before. The ribbon unwinds over the moor, where a few black-faced sheep with bouncing lambs crop the scanty herbage between patches of brown heather, raising their heads timidly to watch us roll by. The hills divide, showing glimpses of small lochs, delphinium blue in colour, fed with sparkling burns. Far away against the skyline, a ring of purple hills, with small white patches of snow in their crevices, keeps guard over the peaceful land.
The conversation is desultory, and confined to questions regarding our journey. Whether the train was up to time at Dalmawhagger or some name like that, and did we see Ben something or other. Unfortunately none of us is able to answer intelligently. I can’t help feeling that Mrs. Loudon is depressed, or – has something on her mind her remarks seem to lack the trenchant – note which I remember so well but perhaps this is merely my imagination, or perhaps the presence of Annie, sitting up very straight on the folding seat in front of us, is embarrassing her.
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Page 18
