Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Oh, that’s just it,’ Elsie says unblushingly. ‘You see it would be a bit awkward for me, wouldn’t it? I mean you could tell Guthrie I’m not coming.’

  I suggest she should tell Guthrie herself but Elsie says I could do it better. ‘You don’t need to tell him where I’ve gone,’ she points out. ‘Just say I’m not coming, and that’ll let him down gradually – I mean to say he’ll soon find out about Stuart, and Guthrie isn’t the kind to be a nuisance.’

  I realise at once that my companion has had some experience in being ‘off with the old love’, but that her technique differs considerably from the advice of the adage. In fact, the strange creature uses the ‘new love’ as a kind of bootjack.

  Betty is waiting for us on the crest of the hill. ‘How slow you walk!’ she says. ‘This hoop’s no good, I can’t bowl it over the stones. I wish I had bought that ball, and then Annie and me could have played catches with it. D’you think if we went back now the girl would let me change it?’

  I reply that I am quite sure she would not, and that we shall be late for lunch unless we hurry.

  ‘Why aren’t you hurrying then?’ Betty says reproachfully. ‘Is Miss Baker coming to lunch with us?’

  Miss Baker says she must go home to her father, and she is going to Inverness this afternoon to see a talkie. Upon which Betty exclaims rapturously, ‘Oh, how lovely! Can I come too? Is Guthrie going? Oh, do say I can come.’

  I entice my daughter away by all sorts of rash promises, and we wend our way homewards.

  ‘You might have let me go,’ Betty points out. ‘She’d have had to take me if you said I could, whether she wanted to or not.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t want to go unless she wanted you,’ I suggest, somewhat taken aback at this strange point of view.

  ‘Of course I wanted to go,’ replies Betty firmly.

  Lunch has begun, and Betty and I slip into our places, feeling rather guilty. Mrs. Loudon smiles encouragingly and asks if we have had a nice walk.

  ‘It was lovely,’ says Betty. ‘I bought a hoop, but it wouldn’t bowl properly over the stones, so now I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘I suppose it was the hoop that made you so late,’ suggests Guthrie teasingly.

  ‘Oh, no, it was because Mummie and Miss Baker walked so slow – Miss Baker was there, you know. She’s going to Inverness this afternoon to see a talkie. I wish we could go to Inverness,’ says my irrepressible daughter, hopefully.

  Guthrie looks rather puzzled. ‘But Miss Baker is coming here to tea.’

  ‘Oh no, she’s not,’ replies Betty confidently. ‘She’s going to Inverness – isn’t she, Mummie?’

  I had intended to give Guthrie the message in private, but perhaps this is the best way after all. At any rate he can ask for no details with the glare of the limelight upon him. Thus reflecting I confirm Betty’s information.

  Everyone looks surprised.

  The advent of the postman turns the conversation into other channels. I open a letter from Bryan’s headmaster and find that it contains the distressing news that my son has developed chicken pox.

  This disaster is received by my companions in various ways. Betty continues to absorb apple tart quite undismayed by her brother’s misfortune.

  ‘Poor lad!’ says Mrs. Loudon sympathetically. ‘How will he have got that, I wonder.’

  ‘Chicken pox is nothing,’ Guthrie remarks comfortingly. ‘Just an excuse for a slack, and lots of fun in the san. I remember when I had chicken pox we had the time of our young lives ’

  ‘Chicken pox!’ exclaims Mrs. Falconer. ‘Us girls all had chicken pox together in November 1900 or it may have been 1901. I was quite grown up, and I remember being very distressed in case it should leave holes and spoil my appearance. It must have been in November, because I remember distinctly us looking out of the window with our spotty faces to see Papa and Edward letting off the fireworks in the garden for Guy Fawkes or of course it may have been for the relief of Mafeking and not for Guy Fawkes at all. At any rate Alice caught a severe cold from being out of bed and not putting on her bedroom slippers. You remember what severe colds Alice used to get, Elspeth? Papa always said if you breathed too hard near Alice she got cold at once. That was just dear Papa’s fun, of course, because a person breathing near you could not possibly give you cold. I always say if you tie a silk handkerchief round your head at night it prevents you from taking cold. Have you ever tried that, Elspeth? It is a remarkable preventative, but it must be silk, of course.’

  ‘I scarcely ever take cold,’ says Mrs. Loudon shortly.

  ‘How fortunate you are!’ exclaims her cousin. ‘Isn’t she fortunate, Mrs. Christie? A cold in the head is such a disfiguring complaint, and nobody is the least sympathetic. I declare I would rather have appendicitis than a cold in the head.’

  ‘Bryan has colds too,’ says Betty suddenly. ‘Doesn’t he, Mummie? And now he’s got chicken pox – what is chicken pox like? Is it like a cold?’

  ‘Chicken pox is spots,’ declares Mrs. Falconer. She takes a deep breath, and is about to elaborate the theme, but Betty is too quick for her.

  ‘I had spots at Kiltwinkle,’ she says breathlessly, ‘and Mummie thought it was measles, but the doctor said it was indirections of diet. Did you ever have indirections of diet, Guthrie?’

  Guthrie says, ‘Frequently, after a heavy night at sea.’

  ‘It’s horrid, isn’t it? Bryan never has it, but then, of course, he’s older than me. Sometimes he’s five years older than me, and sometimes only four.’

  Guthrie asks in pardonable surprise how this thing can be, whereupon Betty explains kindly.

  ‘Well, you see,’ she says, ‘he used to be eleven, when I was six, and then I had a birthday that made me seven, but Bryan’s still only eleven, so he’s only four years older than me now.’

  After a moment’s thought Guthrie says that he sees.

  All this has little bearing on poor Bryan’s misfortune, but when we have finished lunch and are taking coffee on the veranda, Mrs. Loudon returns to the subject and makes sympathetic enquiries about his condition. I answer them from the meagre information contained in Mr. Parker’s letter.

  ‘Did you say he was at Nearhampton School?’ cries Mrs. Falconer, pouncing suddenly on the name like a kitten on a ball of wool. ‘How very strange! That is where the Anstruthers’ boy is at school I always thought it such a funny name. You remember Frances Anstruther, Elspeth? This is her grandson, of course such a charming boy I saw him once when he was two years old, and he was very big for his age. I must really write to Frances and tell her about it. What a strange coincidence!’

  Mrs. Loudon and I discuss the Anstruthers under cover of Mrs. Falconer’s flow of talk. She is completely wound up, and seems quite oblivious of the fact that nobody is listening to her.

  ‘I used to know Frances Anstruther well,’ Mrs. Loudon says. ‘We were real friends at one time, and then, quite suddenly, the pith seemed to go out of our friendship, and we drifted apart – perhaps you’re too young to understand and now if we meet it’s just for the sake of what was, and to repeat, and to remember.’

  I tell her that I do understand, and that I know Mrs. Anstruther quite well and am suddenly aghast at the lie. How do I know her? We have met quite frequently, it is true, and discussed the weather, and servants, and the merits and demerits of Nearhampton School. Well, this is one way of knowing a person, I suppose; to know the outline, not the detail; to sit on the veranda and look at the contour of the hill that shoulder, such a jagged shoulder it looks, running down steeply into the silver water of the loch. I know Mrs. Anstruther in that way – just a few jags, sticking up into the blue sky, just a rounded piece of hill with a few pine-trees on it. Some day I may climb the hill and feel the smoothness of the jagged rocks, and find a piece of bog-myrtle in a crevice, or move a stone and see the ants and beetles wriggling amongst the pale roots of grass.

  ‘Dreaming again, Hester?’ says Mrs. Loudon, and I can see her smiling
at me behind her glasses. ‘What a dreamer the girl is, to be sure.’

  ‘ – but in those days,’ says Mrs. Falconer, evidently finishing a long and complicated story about her girlhood, ‘in those days nobody talked about being happy, like they do now – nobody minded whether children were happy, the really important thing was that they should be good. But I really think that people were just as happy as they are now, only they never thought about whether they were or not.’

  Fourteenth June

  I receive a letter from Tim at breakfast-time, saying that he will travel north on Thursday night, and arrive at Avielochan some time on Friday. This is thrilling news. Mrs. Loudon is delighted too, and says she knew the man would come, and she thinks we had better have another dinner party for him, and asks the MacQuills this time, and perhaps the Farquhars from the Hall.

  ‘I suppose you’ll have no further use for us after Friday,’ Guthrie says, looking up from a plate piled with bacon, and running with tomato juice. ‘Once that husband of yours is here, we lesser mortals will have to take a back seat.’

  I reply primly that Tim and I are old married folk, and completely inured to each other’s charms.

  ‘Look at her, Mother she’s blushing,’ says the dreadful man with a grin.

  ‘I’m not blushing,’ I retort indignantly. ‘My skin is so fair that when I eat tomatoes they show through.’

  ‘Tell me when you’ve quite finished girding at each other,’ says Mrs. Loudon with asperity. ‘There’s some things I want fetched from Inverness, and dear knows how I’m to get them here. Dobbie says he wants a whole day at the car, the engine’s knocking like a riveting machine, and he thinks it’s a bludgeon pin or something.’

  Guthrie says he’s sorry to hear about it, but he fails to see what he can do, unless his mother wants him to go to Inverness on Donald’s bicycle. It’s only a hundred-odd miles there and back, of course, but the bike is tied together with bootlaces – or perhaps she would like him to ride over on the fat pony which is used for mowing the lawn.

  Mrs. Loudon retorts that she wants nothing except that he should have some sense, and he had better go and catch fish, as that’s about all he’s good for.

  At this moment Tony arrives and says the Bentley wants exercising, and will I go for a run. Mrs. Loudon jumps at this chance of getting her shopping done, and asks shamelessly if the Bentley would run well in the direction of Inverness. Tony replies that it would like nothing better; we can go one way by some place with an unpronounceable name – lunch at Inverness, and return the other way.

  Mrs. Loudon says, ‘You really should see it, Hester.’

  Guthrie says, ‘Why should she? I can’t think why anyone should want to.’

  Once it is known in the house that I am setting forth upon this expedition, I am besieged by people with commissions to be done. Mrs. Falconer wants some wool matched, and two pairs of black cashmere stockings; Mrs. Loudon has a long list of things chiefly wine and groceries; Guthrie wants flies and four new casts; Annie requires elastic and buttons for Betty’s underwear.

  All this takes time, but at last we are ready to start. Tony says would I like to drive. I am amazed and touched at this proof of friendship, but refuse the offer unconditionally the Bentley is so enormous compared with our small shabby Cassandra that I feel sure it would run away with me, and so disgrace me for ever in Tony’s eyes.

  Tony says, ‘Just as you like, of course,’ and steers carefully out of the gate. We float along rapidly amongst the mountains and the forests, enjoying the lovely breeze.

  We have gone quite a long way – I don’t know how far – and are rounding a very sharp bend with considerable care, when Tony swerves to the side of the road, and stops suddenly with a jarring of brakes.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaims.

  The cause of his consternation is at once apparent: a small yellow sports car is leaning drunkenly against a tree at the side of the road. One wheel is buckled and the windscreen is a mass of splinters.

  ‘It’s Hector MacQuill’s car,’ Tony says anxiously. ‘The reckless devil has done it this time with a vengeance. I hope to goodness nobody’s hurt. We’d better see – ’

  I begin getting out, but Tony seizes my arm. ‘You stay where you are, Hester,’ he says firmly.

  At this moment Hector MacQuill appears from amongst the trees; he looks slightly dazed but appears to be unharmed.

  ‘What’s all this, Hector?’ cries Tony in a relieved tone of voice. ‘You seem to have smashed up the Yellow Peril successfully – I knew you’d do it some day.’

  ‘I wish to goodness I had chosen some other day,’ replies the young man gloomily. ‘I don’t care a blow about the car – the thing is we’re in a frightful hole–’

  ‘I can see that,’ Tony says facetiously.

  ‘Perhaps I could speak to you for a minute,’ says Hector, with a glance at me.

  Tony follows him over to the car, and they discuss something in low voices – I can’t help wondering what it is all about. The car seems to be completely wrecked, and I see nothing for it but to go to the nearest garage, and send a break-down lorry.

  After some minutes’ conversation, Tony comes back to me, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ he says mysteriously. ‘Here’s our friend Hector running off with Miss MacArbin. Who said Romance was dead?’

  ‘Miss MacArbin!’ I exclaim.

  ‘None other,’ responds Tony. ‘He has a precedent for the deed, of course. I confess I did not think her wildly exciting, but there’s no accounting for tastes. Perhaps the explanation lies in the fact that forbidden fruit is always the sweetest – anyway, here they are, and lucky to be alive – I don’t know what happened. Hector is in such a state that he doesn’t know himself.’

  ‘But where is Miss MacArbin?’

  ‘Hiding in the trees and awaiting our decision,’ replies Tony dramatically. ‘Shall we bind them with the towing rope and deliver them to their respective families, or shall we drive on, and leave them to their fate, or shall we risk the wrath of both their clans, and further love’s young dream by taking them to Inverness and putting them in the train? These are the three courses open to us, as far as I can see.’

  ‘But are they – do they– ’ I stammer.

  ‘Apparently they are, and do,’ he replies gravely. ‘They have been meeting secretly for some time, and are quite convinced that they wish to follow the example of their notorious forebears.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they know their own minds – ’

  ‘I suppose nothing of the kind,’ says Tony with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And it is quite against my principles to help anybody to marry anybody else. I am convinced that marriage is an overrated sport except, of course, in exceptional cases. These two young people will probably live to curse our names unless Hector succeeds in smashing himself up before the year is out. However, it’s none of our business ’

  ‘You will give us a lift, won’t you, Mrs. Christie?’ says Hector, himself, coming forward and putting an end to Tony’s unseasonable dissertation. ‘We don’t want to get anybody into trouble, but ’ ‘Of course we’re going to help you!’ I exclaim.

  ‘I say, it’s awfully good of you,’ he says, his brow clearing. ‘I’ll just get hold of Deirdre and tell her the good news.’

  Tony is now busy unstrapping the suitcases from the back of the ill-fated Yellow Peril, and transferring them to the luggage grid of the Bentley.

  ‘It’s rather fun, isn’t it, Hester?’ he says. ‘But we shall have to be careful not to get mixed up in it there’s going to be an unholy row when it’s discovered.’

  Miss MacArbin now appears from her hiding place looking more ethereal than ever, and I feel glad that the Fairy Princess has got a Prince worthy of her beauty. They make a splendid pair.

  ‘You know Mrs. Christie, don’t you, Deirdre?’ says Hector, putting his arm through hers and gazing at her with adoring eyes.

  ‘
Of course I do,’ she replies.

  ‘We met at the dinner party, didn’t we?’

  ‘And once nearly before that,’ says Miss MacArbin with her sunlit smile. ‘I was the White Lady at Castle Darroch.’

  ‘And you thought she was the ghost of Seónaid,’ cries Hector boyishly. ‘By Jove, that was a near thing. I thought some of you saw me running into the wood when the rain came. Deirdre and I found the ruin a good place to meet there is a secret passage from the tower which we found useful on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Well, jump in – if you’ve finished talking,’ Tony says. ‘And you had better cover yourselves with the rugs when we get near Inverness – Mrs. Christie and I don’t want our throats cut by Clan MacQuill, nor our bodies thrown into Loch-an-Darroch by Clan MacArbin ’

  ‘The whole thing is awful rot, isn’t it?’ says Hector, helping his fellow runaway into the car. ‘If Father could only see Deirdre–’

  ’ The Bentley’s pace precludes any further conversation with our passengers. The miles flash by, and it seems but a few minutes before we are running through the streets of Inverness. By this time, however, Tony has outlined a plan which seems to me a feasible one. Deirdre and I are to be dropped at the entrance to the station, we are to take two tickets to Edinburgh, and make our way to the platform. Tony will park the car, and he and Hector will take two platform tickets and meet us at the train. Hector and I will then exchange tickets, and the runaways will get into different parts of the train. In this way the two victims of the feud will not be seen by anybody in each other’s company a circumstance which would at once give rise to talk and conjecture.

  The plan is carried out without a hitch. Deirdre meets a friend on the way to the booking office, but, as her companion is merely an innocuous female, no suspicions are aroused. I find her a comfortable seat in the train and wish her the best of luck.

  ‘I do hope we’ll meet again,’ says Miss MacArbin.

  ‘We must,’ I reply firmly.

  She does not burden me with thanks, for which I feel suitably grateful.