Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  Grace enquires what has happened today—what particular detail has gone wrong—and Jack replies that he has spent hours trying to trace fifty rounds of ammunition which cannot be accounted for. “Fifty rounds!” says Jack in disgust, “. . . and there’s a war on! Carter doesn’t seem to know there’s a war on. How many rounds do they lose in France, I wonder.”

  “Where can they have gone?” enquires Grace—an unwise question which, in my humble opinion, is unlikely to soothe the savage breast.

  “Where can they have gone?” echoes Jack in furious tones. “I should think someone’s been shooting rabbits . . . or someone’s bagged them to have a pot at Carter . . . perhaps that’s why he’s in such a flap. Oh hell, I wish I could get out of this place and see some Active Service!”

  “Jack!” exclaims Grace in dismay.

  “Well, I’m a soldier—not a blinking clerk,” says Jack firmly.

  It has been difficult for me to know where to look during this heated exchange, for it is always extremely embarrassing to be present on occasions of this nature, and now it is more than ever impossible to look my host in the face, for if it had not been for my unwarranted interference in his affairs he would be on Active Service at this very moment. I rise and collect my reluctant daughter, and hasten home.

  TUESDAY 3OTH APRIL

  The date of Annie’s wedding is now approaching and Annie is extremely preoccupied. She goes about with a dazed expression upon her usually serene countenance; she jumps if anyone speaks to her suddenly; she forgets to give us knives and forks with which to eat our food; she forgets to waken us in the morning. As I can sympathise with Annie’s feelings, I bear with the small inconveniences in patience and spend a good deal of my time rushing round the house and remedying the deficiencies. It has been settled that Annie shall have a holiday to correspond with her future husband’s leave, and they will go south to Annie’s parents—who live at Hounslow—and be married there. Meanwhile a substitute for Annie has been found for me by Mrs. Fraser, who recommends her to me by saying, “She’s young and daft-like, but I’ll see to her.”

  I present Annie with some extra money and a frock, which is slightly tight for me across the back. It will fit Annie quite well, and she is delighted with it. She takes it and goes away and, a few minutes later, she returns wearing the frock and says she thought I would like to see how nice it is. I do like to see it, and compliment her upon her appearance. It suits Annie far better than it suited me.

  Annie tries to see her back in the mirror and says, “I’ve a good mind to get married in it,” and I agree that she might do worse. “It’s good,” says Annie, “that’s what I like about it, and nobody’s to know but what it isn’t new . . . Oh dear,” says Annie with a little sniff, “Oh dear, I ’ope it’s the right thing to do . . . me getting married I mean . . . such a plunge, it is . . . not but what Bollings is a nice fellow.”

  I reassure Annie as best I can.

  “If it wasn’t that it was all arranged I’d back down,” declares Annie frankly.

  I assure Annie that a lot of people feel like that as their wedding day approaches.

  “Yes,” says Annie. “Mrs. Fraser did too. Mrs. Fraser says it’s like ’aving a tooth out. You’re sorry you ever came when you find yourself in the dentist’s chair, but you’re all the better for it afterwards.”

  WEDNESDAY 1ST MAY

  Annie leaves in the morning and her substitute arrives in the afternoon. Mrs. Fraser brings her into the drawing room and says, “This is her,” and goes away. She is a small plump girl with round brown eyes, and is neatly dressed in a tailored coat with a fur collar and a scarlet beret. She says her name is Florence Mackay, but I can call her Florrie, if I like—“lots o’ folks do.” It is a little difficult to know what to say to this, so I leave it and proceed to outline her duties, but I have not got far when she interrupts me.

  “There’s nae need for that,” she announces. “They’ll just be the usual things. I ken fine whit’s wanted in a hoose.”

  “You’ve had experience?” I enquire, somewhat surprised, for Mrs. Fraser has led me to believe that her experience is extremely limited.

  “Lots of it,” replies the girl firmly. “I can dae the hoose, and the table, and I can dae the cooking when the auld wumman’s oot.”

  There is no more to be said, so I declare the interview at an end, and suggest that Florence (or Florrie) should go upstairs and change her dress. Pinkie and I congratulate ourselves on the fact that Annie’s substitute knows her job, but unfortunately we congratulate ourselves too soon, for if Florence has had any experience, it has not been gained in a house like mine. It would have been better—from our point of view—if she had had no experience at all, for in that case she might have been willing to listen to reason. It would be very much better—from our point of view—if Florence were not so full of unbounded confidence in her own abilities, or so certain that in all matters of domestic procedure she was right and we were wrong. Mrs. Fraser sums up the situation in her usual trenchant manner. “The gurrl wouldna’ be sae bad if she would take a telling,” says Mrs. Fraser.

  THURSDAY 2ND MAY

  Am invited to go to tea with Mrs. Loudon at her rooms, and set off in good time, as I am aware that she likes her guests to be punctual. Mrs. Loudon is so pleased to see me that I feel quite sorry for her, and I ask whether she is feeling very bored here, and why she does not go home. She replies that she is bored, for there’s nothing on earth to do except visit Guthrie at the hospital, but as he is better and likely to get leave soon she has decided to wait for him and take him home with her. I suggest she should go on in advance, and Guthrie could follow when he gets his discharge, but she replies somewhat cryptically, “I daresay he could, but would he? It’s safer to wait and take him with me. Come away in and have some tea.”

  It is curious to see Mrs. Loudon in these rooms, for they do not suit her personality at all, and she has made no attempt to alter them, but is abiding amongst Mrs. MacPhail’s goods and chattels like a person in a waiting room at a railway station. I have been forced to dwell amongst other people’s belongings all my life, but I have always managed to make a home amongst them. The first thing to do, on arrival at a new house, is to remove the plethora of useless and tasteless objects with which people who let rooms and furnished houses clutter the available space, but Mrs. Loudon has removed nothing—not even a small round red plush footstool from the hearth rug, not even the antimacassars from the backs of the chairs.

  “Yes, it’s an awful place,” says Mrs. Loudon, following my eyes round the room. “That blue vase gives me the shudders whenever I look its way—and the pink cushion—and yon antimacassar with the dragons. Oh well, I’ll be glad when I can get home and no doubt I’ll appreciate it the more.”

  I suggest that the offending objects should be removed.

  “I’ve thought of it,” admits Mrs. Loudon nodding at me gravely over the tea pot. “I’ve thought of it once or twice—but she might be hurt. She’s a dwaibly sort of creature and I wouldn’t care to hurt her feelings, Hester. She worked the antimacassar herself, poor body, and she put yon footstool there for me because I’d had lumbago—though how the footstool could help me I fail to see. She brought the thing up and put it there with her own hands, and if I’ve fallen over it once I’ve fallen over it a dozen times. And yon wee bamboo table with the fern, it gets in my road whenever I open or shut the window. Dear knows how it’s survived! I’ll be glad when I get out of the place with a whole skin—but never mind that. Have a cookie, Hester.”

  I accept one.

  “Now then!” says Mrs. Loudon, sitting up even straighter than usual in her plush-covered chair, “Now then, I’ve something to ask you. Will you and Betty come to Avielochan for a visit when Guthrie’s better—and Bryan too, if he’s still at home—it would do you all a lot of good to have a wee change.”

  “It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “And why not, may I ask?”
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  “Because I’ve got work to do,” I reply, smiling at her.

  “Pooh!” exclaims Mrs. Loudon. “Somebody else could take a hand at it, and high time too. You need a holiday, Hester.”

  “No, I can’t leave just now. There’s a lot to do, and nobody to do it. I might come later on when Grace MacDougall is better—”

  “It’s now I want you,” declares Mrs. Loudon. “Now, when Guthrie’s at home. I’m not at all sure he’s not hankering after that red-haired nurse—”

  We argue for several minutes, but I have made up my mind and Mrs. Loudon’s persuasions will not move me. I have interfered once before in Guthrie’s love affairs, and although it is true that my interference produced the desired result, I am determined not to repeat the experiment.

  FRIDAY 3RD MAY

  Grace rings up and enquires whether Pinkie and I will go round after dinner for a chat. She explains that she would ask us to dinner if she could, but her servants have both left to go into munitions, and she has not been able to get anyone, else . . . “It seems so awfully mingy to ask you after dinner,” declares Grace apologetically; “but the only thing I can make really well is a soufflé, and I should have to be in the kitchen when you arrive—watching over it like a guardian angel—and my hair would be standing on end, and my nose would be red and shiny . . . so you see.”

  I appreciate Grace’s difficulty at a glance, and assure her that there is absolutely no need to ask us to dinner, and that Pinkie and I will dine at home and come round afterwards. . . .

  Having accepted the invitation on the spur of the moment, I begin to have qualms as to whether I should have done so without consulting Pinkie, for it is quite likely that she may have made other arrangements. Pinkie has settled down as if she belonged to the family, and I am delighted to have her as long as she can stay. She is an easy guest, for she requires no entertainment, and she has the rare virtue of being at hand when wanted, and of disappearing for hours when her hostess is busy or tired. Bryan and Betty adore her, and the servants are her willing slaves—it is like having a grown-up daughter in the house. I have encouraged her to make her own plans, for it is so much better for us both to be free. Pinkie goes out to tennis, and sometimes to the pictures, and I have my own friends to visit. In this way we have more to talk about when we are together. I notice that the subalterns drop in more frequently than usual, but am not deceived by their unwonted anxiety as to how I am getting on. Bill, who was Pinkie’s first friend, pursues her indefatigably, but does not seem to be making much headway. She is nice to him, of course, but Pinkie is nice to everyone—she distributes her smiles with fine impartiality. Young Craddock is another constant visitor, and is often accompanied by his colonel. It is all very cheerful and amusing, and if Tim were here I should be completely happy . . . but alas, Tim is not here.

  I discover at teatime that Pinkie has made a “date” with young Craddock, so she will not be able to accompany me tonight. She offers to put it off, but I see no need for this, it will be more amusing for her to go to the pictures than to come to the MacDougalls’ for a quiet chat.

  “It’s Rebecca, you see,” says Pinkie; “so if you really don’t mind . . . but if you do mind the least bit . . . or if you don’t like the idea of walking down to the MacDougalls’ by yourself in the black-out . . .”

  I assure her that I don’t mind at all, and that I am quite capable of looking after myself.

  “Take your torch,” says Pinkie, “and be very careful crossing the road.”

  It is a fine night and the walk is quite enjoyable. I have been out so little since the war started that it is quite a pleasant change. The black-out in Donford seems fairly satisfactory, and except for an occasional slit of faint light at the edge of a window, the darkness is complete.

  Jack opens the door and ushers me into the drawing room, where Grace is discovered reclining in a large armchair. She is looking less soignée than usual, and seems somewhat fretful. “My dear, I’m nearly dead,” says Grace. “I seem to have spent the whole day washing dishes. Nannie helps, of course, but she hasn’t much time . . . we shall both be thankful when the new cook arrives. I don’t mind anything except the dishes, but they go on all the time, and no sooner have you got them all nice and clean than they are all dirty again. People use far too many dishes—far more than they need—and as for spoons and forks—”

  “Well, you can’t eat rice pudding with your finger,” says Jack firmly. “I defy anyone to do that—especially when it is the consistency of soup—”

  Grace replies that it was quite a good pudding, and that he could have eaten it with a spoon only, and not used a fork as well, which makes it clear that there has been some unpleasantness between my host and hostess.

  “I like to sit down for a little after my meals,” explains Grace. “I like to digest them peacefully with a cigarette, but the mere fact that there is a large pile of dishes waiting to be washed makes it quite impossible to digest my meals in peace . . . washing up dishes is my idea of hell,” adds Grace thoughtfully.

  It is mine also, so I can sympathise with her.

  “Yes,” says Grace. “I could have given Milton a few tips when he wrote Paradise Lost. My hell will be washing greasy dishes in insufficient lukewarm water. The dish towels will be damp and slimy, and the pile of dishes will grow and grow until there’s no room to put them anywhere.”

  “Dust would be worse,” declares Jack—and I can’t help smiling, for dust is Tim’s pet horror and aversion—“Dust would be infinitely worse. My hell would be full of dust and germs, and I should have to sweep it with one of those old-fashioned brooms that people used before vacuum cleaners were invented—horrible unhygienic things they were!”

  “That’s a sort of nightmare,” declares Grace; but Jack does not agree. “A nightmare is quite different,” he replies. “As a matter of fact I had a most awful nightmare last night. I dreamt I was in the orderly room with stacks of papers to deal with and the sun was shining brightly outside. I wanted to get out, but I knew I had to deal with all the papers before I went, and the papers kept on increasing and increasing in a mysterious kind of way, and at last they were all round me and all over me and I was smothering in them.”

  I make sympathetic sounds, but Grace, who has obviously heard the story before, is eager to recount her pet nightmare, which she invariably experiences if she is so unwise as to eat anything cheesy for dinner. She is trying to pack her clothes in a hurry, so as to catch a train, and she has not enough trunks or suitcases in which to pack them . . . and, every time she thinks she has finished her task, she pulls out another drawer and finds it full of clothes. We discuss nightmares in general terms and Jack enquires whether I ever suffer from a nightmare—the kind of nightmare which returns and returns and haunts one during the day. I reply, somewhat reluctantly, that I do, but I am not particularly anxious to recount my nightmare, for it is so horrible to me that I prefer not to think of it. Strangely enough my reluctance has the effect of whetting Jack’s interest, and he urges me to tell them about it, and continues to urge me until I realise that it will be easier to comply with his request than to refuse. Before describing my nightmare, I premise that it is difficult to define the horror of it to other people, so, if they are expecting something startling, they will probably be disappointed. My nightmare begins in a very ordinary sort of way: I wake up—just as I wake every morning—to find Annie in my room with my morning tea. She puts it on the table beside my bed—just as she always does—and then she says something to me; I can see that she is telling me something very important, but I can’t understand a word she says. The frightful part of it is that I am aware that I shall never be able to understand what anyone says. Tim speaks to me too—and I can’t understand a word. Tim and Annie speak to each other—and I can’t understand a word. Other people come in and talk to me and gesticulate—“Wah wah ditchy wen, ditchy wen waddy wah wah,” says everyone earnestly . . . and I wake up dripping with heat and trembling in every limb
.

  Grace says, “My dear, it’s perfectly frightful! It’s the most frightful nightmare I ever heard of. I wonder what it means. Perhaps Ermyntrude would know, she knows all about dreams and things—they all mean something.”

  I feel that I would rather not know what my nightmare means, but am too cowardly to say so.

  At this moment the front door bell rings and Jack goes to answer it, and returns with Bill Taylor. He is evidently expected, for Grace says, “Oh, here you are! I thought perhaps you weren’t able to get away.”

  “Well, it wasn’t easy,” replies Bill. “But I managed to get someone to take my duty . . .” his eyes stray round the room and he adds, “I thought you said . . .”

  “I know,” murmurs Grace. “I hoped she was coming tonight.”

  It is quite obvious that Pinkie is the mysterious “she” and that Grace’s scheme has gone awry. For some reason I feel somewhat annoyed with Grace—she has no right to poke her fingers into this particular pie—and I am quite glad that Pinkie has not come. We chat for a little, but Bill is restless and after about a quarter of an hour, during which he has been extremely distrait he rises and says that he must be off. Jack offers him a whisky and soda, but he refuses the solace, saying that he will go back to his quarters, and do some work, and that he can work better without the aid of stimulants. This surprises Jack a good deal, and he declares—as he escorts Bill to the door—that it is quite impossible for him to make any serious mental effort without an occasional whisky and soda to jolly up his brain.

  When they have gone Grace turns to me and says, “You must do something, Hester. You must take a firm line with Pinkie.”