Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  D.E. Stevenson

  Mrs. Tim Carries On

  There is so much War News in News Bulletins, in Newspapers, and so much talk about the war that I do not intend to write about it in my diary. Indeed my diary is a sort of escape from the war . . . though it is almost impossible to escape from the anxieties which it brings.

  Bestselling author D.E. Stevenson’s charming fictional alter-ego, Hester Christie—or “Mrs Tim” as she is affectionately known to friends of her military husband—was first introduced to readers in Mrs Tim of the Regiment, published in 1932. In 1941, Stevenson brought Mrs Tim back in this delightful sequel, to lift spirits and boost morale in the early days of World War II.

  With her husband stationed in France, Hester finds plenty to keep her busy on the Home Front. From her first air raid and a harrowing but hilarious false alarm about a German invasion, to volunteering at the regiment’s “Comforts Depot,” guiding the romantic destinies of her pretty house-guest and an injured soldier, and making a flying visit to a blacked-out, slightly bedraggled London with its fighting spirit intact, Mrs Tim does indeed carry on—in inimitable style.

  Mrs Tim returns in two subsequent novels, Mrs. Tim Gets a Job (1947) and Mrs. Tim Flies Home (1952), all back in print for the first time in decades from Furrowed Middlebrow and Dean Street Press. Our new editions feature an introduction by Alexander McCall Smith.

  “She admirably preserves her lightness of touch, with a tinge of melancholy added, which perfectly suits the mood of 1940.” Glasgow Herald

  “This is not merely a war book to which cheerfulness keeps breaking in, it is a book of cheerfulness from which the war cannot be kept out . . . Major Tim’s amazing escape from Dunkirk is high drama superbly handled, and her word pictures are both lifelike and lively.” Manchester Evening News

  FM23

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page/About the Book

  Contents

  Introduction by Alexander McCall Smith

  Part I

  February–March 1940

  Part II

  April–May

  Part III

  August–September

  Part IV

  November–December

  About the Author

  Titles by D.E. Stevenson

  Furrowed Middlebrow Titles

  Mrs. Tim Gets a Job – Title Page

  Mrs. Tim Gets a Job – Chapter I

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH

  Dorothy Emily Stevenson is one of those authors who has been largely forgotten in the literary world. Not that she was ever particularly recognised in such circles: she was far too popular to be taken seriously by the critics – she was too comfortable, too easy to read. And yet, in spite of this condescension that is so often dispensed by the guardians of literary standards, Stevenson was bought by millions all over the world and is still appreciated by many readers who continue to read her work. Certainly her books are easy, in the sense that they are clearly written, they tell an intelligible tale, and do not seek to impress the reader. There is also a certain sameness to them. And yet they still have an appeal that has kept them in print. So these are not ephemeral romances of the sort that are instantly forgettable. Nor do they remotely approach the level achieved by that great story-teller of the era, Maugham. They are somewhere in the middle-rung territory below such books, but that is a perfectly good place to be, and a worthy one too. These novels still bring pleasure and remind us of a world, and of a country, that has changed out of all recognition. And as that world becomes more unhappy and divided, the attraction of authors such as Stevenson perhaps becomes stronger.

  Dorothy Stevenson was a Scottish author, although she is rarely mentioned in Scottish literary history. She was the bearer of a famous name: she was a member of the Stevenson family of lighthouse engineers who, over several generations, built almost all of Scotland’s lighthouses, including engineering marvels such as the Bell Rock Lighthouse. That makes her a member of the same family as Robert Louis Stevenson, author of classics such as Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and that perennial favourite, A Child’s Garden of Verses. She was born into this family in 1892 and had the typical upbringing of a member of the well-heeled Scottish professional class. She was keen to go to university, but there was little parental support for this ambition, and she made, instead, a conventional marriage to a member of the Peploe family. Her husband, an army officer, was a relative of Samuel Peploe, one of the greatest of Scotland twentieth-century painters and a major figure in the Scottish Colourist movement.

  Stevenson was a prolific writer, writing a book a year during the course of a career that lasted until 1969, when her final book was published. Her first success was Mrs Tim and the Regiment; this was soon followed by a series of light and humorous titles. Thereafter her popularity grew, as readers turned with delight to the reappearance of familiar characters and the following of a tried and tested formula. The books eluded the sort of classification that reviewers and scholars like to engage in. They are not simple romances; nor are they anything that would today be recognised as thrillers. They are in a category of their own: clearly-written straightforward tales that take the reader through a clear plot and reach a recognisable and unambiguous ending. The appeal that they have for the contemporary reader lies in the fact that there is no artifice in these books. They are not about dysfunctional people. They are not about psychopathology. There is no gore or sadism in them. The characters speak in sentences and do not resort to constant confrontational exchanges. In other words, these books are far from modern. But therein, perhaps, lies the charm to which Stevenson’s many readers are so quick to respond.

  One of the main features of Stevenson’s novels is their simplicity. That is a quality that is not rated in fiction today. Many writers now feel that in order to be noticed they must go out of their way to be clever – even to the extent of being opaque. Nothing should be portrayed as it seems to be; cynicism is all; sincerity is hopelessly naïve. In such a climate, direct stories that follow a fairly strict chronological pattern, that eschew obfuscation, and that place feasible and, in many cases, rather likeable characters centre-stage are not highly regarded. And yet that is exactly what Stevenson does, and that is what many readers still seem to want. Add humour to the equation and the mixture will find a ready audience.

  A particular feature of Stevenson’s oeuvre is the way in which characters that appear in one book may crop up in another context in a quite different title. Readers like this because in a way it reflects the way the world is; our lives are not linear narratives – they are meandering stories that take place in diverse settings and that are peopled by characters who drop in and out at various stages. Stevenson is one of those authors, then, who creates a whole world: her novels have that quality that family sagas have, and the story of families, their achievements and disappointments, their tragedies and triumphs, are perennially popular. Why? Because this is, in essence, the experience of most of us. For just about everyone, family life is exactly that: a saga.

  Yet they do not ignore the social and political turmoil of the time in which they were written. Stevenson wrote eight novels during the Second World War, and these books certainly have something to say about life on the home front in that period. And that leads to a general conclusion about Stevenson’s work. These are not necessarily novels in which there is a great deal of drama, but for those who wish to spend time amongst characters leading fairly ordinary lives, these novels will provide considerable enjoyment. We don’t want too much excitement. Or, if we do opt for some excitement, we like to moderate it with periods of relative quiet. And then, at the end of these, if there is a happy ending, i
f lovers are reunited – as they tend to be in Stevenson’s fiction – then all the better. These are gentle books, very fitting for times of uncertainty and conflict. Some books can be prescribed for anxiety – these are in that category. And it is an honourable and important one.

  Alexander McCall Smith

  Part I

  February–March 1940

  TUESDAY 27TH FEBRUARY

  Having said good-bye to Tim at the station and watched the train disappear from view I drive home in an extremely dejected condition. Discover Grace ensconced in the big armchair in front of the fire and am obliged to postpone the “good cry” which I had promised myself.

  Grace says, “Well, has Tim gone? You aren’t worrying, are you, Hester? There’s absolutely nothing doing in France—nothing except concert parties.”

  Reply brightly and untruthfully that of course I am not worrying.

  Grace says, that’s all right then. She was afraid I might be, and Jack said she was to tell me that he knows where the 1st Battalion is and it’s miles away from the front, and that, as a matter of fact, Tim will be much safer there than he would be at home. When asked to explain how this is possible, Grace replies that there are more people killed in the streets by buses and things than have been killed in France in the war, and Jack says that once Hitler starts bombing in earnest he’s certain to drop some on the barracks. He knows exactly where the barracks are. Grace thinks that we really ought to move further away from the barracks in case a bomb, intended for the barracks, falls upon us by mistake.

  I ask where she proposes to find a house, and she replies that that is the trouble, of course. Donford is simply crammed with people who have no reason to be here so the people who are obliged to be here cannot find houses to suit them. She adds that she wishes she and Jack could find a house in the country so that they could keep a dog for Ian—and perhaps a pony—but she sees no prospect of it at present.

  I point out that it will be some time before Ian can enjoy a pony, and Grace admits that this is true. “It is really more on account of the bombs,” says Grace earnestly. “I don’t mind about myself of course, but I am rather anxious about Ian.”

  As Ian is not yet born but is due to make his appearance shortly, I feel bound to play the part of comforter and I assure Grace that it is common knowledge that the Anti-Aircraft Defences of Donford are most efficient.

  “Oh!” exclaims Grace. “That reminds me—I want you to come to dinner tonight, Hester.”

  It is very kind of Grace, but I feel that a quiet evening at home is more in keeping with my mood, and I am about to refuse the invitation as tactfully as possible when the drawing room door bursts open and Betty rushes in.

  “Hullo!” exclaims Betty. “Has Daddy gone? Did you see him off? Do you think he has got to France yet? Will he have started killing Germans?”

  “No,” says Grace firmly. “Daddy won’t see any Germans for months.”

  “Why?” enquires Betty with interest. “I mean why has he gone at all? Why couldn’t he just stay here if he isn’t going to see any Germans?”

  “He has gone to France in case the Germans attack,” declares Grace.

  “Will they attack him?” asks Betty with round eyes.

  “No,” replies Grace.

  “Why won’t they?”

  “Because he’s there—because all our troops are there.”

  “But how do the Germans know . . .”

  “Hester,” says Grace, gathering up her furs and groping for her gloves down the back of the chair, “Hester, you will come tonight, won’t you? I’ve asked the balloon man and I want you to come and talk to him.”

  “I’ll come,” cries Betty, hopping about with excitement. “I love the balloon man. He was standing in the gutter outside Woolworth’s this morning. I like the red balloons best, don’t you? I like the sausage-shaped ones. Annie gave me a penny to buy it, but it burst before we got home.”

  Grace explains that she does not mean “that horrid dirty man”; she means the officer in charge of the Balloon Barrage, Captain Baker. Betty, quite undefeated, says that she knows a man called Mr. Baker—she met him when we were staying with Mrs. Loudon at Avielochan—he’s a darling, quite bald and full of funny jokes, and she can easily come to dinner and talk to him if Grace would like her to do so.

  Grace lies back in the chair and shuts her eyes and says will Betty please go away before she (Grace) goes raving mad; whereupon Betty hugs her and exclaims rapturously, “I do love you so much. I think it must be because you are so beautiful.”

  Few women could resist such blandishment, and Grace immediately succumbs. “Am I really?” she enquires, opening her eyes and smiling at Betty in a fatuous manner.

  “Yes,” says Betty earnestly. “Yes you are. You’re like Snow White you’re so beautiful, and Mrs. Benson is like the Wicked Queen who tried to poison her.”

  This statement is too near the truth to be altogether comfortable, for Mrs. Benson, the wife of the Colonel of the 1st Battalion, is daggers drawn with Grace. I change the subject hastily and we talk about other matters until Annie comes for Betty and drags her away unwillingly to bed.

  “Your daughter is a most extraordinary child,” declares Grace, when the door has closed and we are once more alone. “I mean she is a most extraordinary mixture of imbecility and acumen. She’s perfectly right about Mrs. Benson—the woman would poison me if she could do it without being found out.”

  “Grace, what nonsense!” I exclaim.

  “I met her at Simpson’s this morning,” continues Grace, taking no notice of my interruption. “We were both trying on hats. I wish you could have seen Aunt Loo with one of those new soup-plate things perched on one eyebrow, it was a sight for the gods. But when she turned and saw me—-when she looked at me—I didn’t feel like laughing any more. It was awful, Hester. I felt a cold shudder run up my back. She hates me.”

  “No, oh no, Grace!”

  “She does,” declares Grace earnestly. “Perhaps nobody has ever hated you, so you haven’t experienced hatred. I hadn’t until now. It’s a terrifying thing.”

  “If you would only take a little trouble to be nice to her . . .” I begin, but Grace does not listen.

  “I wish she would go away,” says Grace fretfully. “Why does she stay on here now that the 1st Battalion has gone to France and Frankie with it. I could do with her house very nicely—ours will be much too small when Ian arrives.”

  “Perhaps you would like this house?” I suggest, a trifle sadly, for I have suddenly realised that there is really no reason why I should remain in Donford either.

  “That’s quite different,” says Grace. “Everyone likes having you here. I shall want you when Ian arrives, and the ‘comforts’ couldn’t exist without you. For Goodness’ Sake don’t get silly ideas like that into your head.”

  The idea is there, and it is not really silly. Mamie Carter could run the Regimental Comforts Fund (and as a matter of fact Mamie ought to run it because her husband is commanding the Depot). I point this out to Grace, but Grace will have nothing to do with it.

  “Heavens!” she exclaims in despairing accents. “You know perfectly well what would happen if Mamie were in charge, it would mean that Mrs. Benson ran it—Mamie is completely under her thumb.”

  “Well then, what about Stella?” I enquire. “It ought to be someone whose husband is actually at the Depot.”

  “It ought to be someone who can do it properly,” replies Grace, “and neither Stella nor Mamie would be the slightest use. I shall never forget what I went through at Biddington with Mamie Carter. I found them a house and I moved them into it, and I had the nurse and the children to stay when the baby was arriving, and Mamie took it all as a matter of course. She even had the cheek to say that she wished I could have found them a house with three bathrooms!”

  I agree that this was indeed the height of ingratitude.

  “Herbert is a perfect saint,” says Grace thoughtfully.

  This leads
us to discuss the strange anomaly of marriage—why is it that selfish wives nearly always have saintly husbands, and how is it that selfish husbands are usually provided with door-mat wives?

  The clock strikes seven before we know where we are and Grace gets up in a hurry and says she had no idea it was so late. She has got the flowers to do and goodness knows what else. . . . “You are coming, aren’t you?” she says persuasively as I follow her out to the gate.

  “Honestly, Grace . . .”

  “You must,” she declares. “Hester, you simply must come. Dinner is at eight.”

  I hesitate for a moment, but I have had a long and very wearing day and I feel quite incapable of dressing up and going out to dinner. I explain this to Grace and remain deaf to her persuasions. Grace departs sorrowfully, saying that she always thought I was her friend.

  I spend a solitary evening sitting by the fire, mending my stockings and writing up my diary. Have decided to keep a record of my doings while Tim is away as it will amuse him to read it when he returns.

  FRIDAY 1ST MARCH

  Very wet morning. Betty and I have breakfast together after which I despatch her to school, suitably clad in oilskins and Wellington boots, and hung about with her schoolbag and gas mask. As usual, when I slip the strap of the gas-mask container over my small daughter’s shoulder, I experience a horrible sinking sensation and utter a fervent prayer that this precaution, insisted upon by the Government, may be unnecessary. My own gas mask does not trouble me in the very least and I can look it in the face without a tremor; it is only Betty’s small but hideous protection which makes me feel sick.

  “Jane forgot hers yesterday,” says Betty as she settles the bulky contraption over her hip. “It was gas-mask drill, too—so she got a black mark.”