Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  Pinkie strolls in and says, “Oh, is tea ready?” but her nonchalant manner does not deceive me, nor do I require the wink which is conveyed to me behind Lady Morley’s back, to inform me who is the author of the feast.

  Betty has been promoted to drawing-room tea (owing to the absence of Annie) and as she has not come down I make my excuses to Lady Morley and go upstairs to find her. It will be just as well to get hold of Betty and see that she is clean and tidy before she makes her appearance . . .

  I find Betty sitting on the nursery floor with her legs stretched out in front of her and large tears pouring down her cheeks. “I’m paralysed,” says Betty with a sob. “My leg is paralysed—I’m like that little boy that goes to school—and can’t walk—”

  “Betty darling!”

  “I didn’t scream—because there’s a lady in the drawing room—I just bore it—”

  “Darling!” I cry, hugging her. “Darling you can’t be paralysed all of a sudden like that.”

  “But I am,” wails Betty. “I am, I tell you. I can’t move my leg at all.”

  “Where does it hurt?” I enquire, feeling the injured limb—and in spite of all that I can do to remain calm my hands tremble—

  “It doesn’t hurt,” she sobs, “It doesn’t feel—Oh, dear, I shall be like Freddie, I shan’t be able to walk ever again—”

  “But what were you doing?” I ask. “When did you find it had gone like that? Can you bend your knee? Do try to be sensible, darling.”

  Betty tries to be sensible and chokes back her tears. “I was sitting on the floor,” she says with a little catch in her breath. “I was sitting just here, playing with the doll’s house—and when I tried to get up—and I tried to stand—my leg was like cotton wool—and now it’s full of fizzy lemonade—”

  Just for a few moments I was frightened (and moments like these add years to one’s age). I had envisaged doctors, and wheel chairs, and a ghastly iron boot—but now I perceive that my alarm was needless—“Don’t cry,” I beseech Betty. “It’s quite all right—it’s nothing the least serious. Your leg had gone to sleep, that’s all . . . look, I’ll rub it for you.”

  I rub her leg briskly and after a few moments she smiles and says it has wakened up now, so we had better go down to tea, and when her face has been washed and her hair brushed, she seems none the worse of her alarming experience. Together we descend the stairs and now that my anxiety is relieved my thoughts return to my visitor—I have left her for hours (or so it seems to me) and have left poor Pinkie to entertain her, but I soon find that I need not have worried, for the two of them are talking with animation.

  Pinkie turns to me and says, “Oh Hester, we just went on with tea—you don’t mind, do you?” and turns back to Lady Morley and exclaims, “Oh, but I like Adrian much better.” Lady Morley replies, “But Rupert is brilliant, and a very fine rider to hounds. My daughter has a great admiration for Rupert.”

  It is obvious from this exchange that my guests have discovered mutual friends and, as I pour out Betty’s milk and spread honey on her scone, I hope devoutly that the family is numerous and diverse and that much remains to be said about them.

  “Will you have a sandwich, Lady Morley?” enquires Pinkie, handing her a plate of delicious tomato sandwiches.

  Lady Morley refuses at first, but, when pressed, she changes her mind; whereupon Betty, who has been silent up to now, says in a loud voice, “You don’t need to have one if you don’t like them, because we can easily finish them up.”

  This pointed remark, from a hitherto dumb child, startles her ladyship considerably, and makes Pinkie choke. It startles me also, for I now perceive that Betty is suffering from a reaction to her recent experience, and is feeling on top of the world. Her cheeks are very pink and her eyes are shining, and she is ready to take an active part in the conversation. When Betty is in this mood she may say or do practically anything—and for all I know Lady Morley holds the opinion that children should be seen and not heard. I grasp at the first straw of conversation I can think of, and find myself telling Lady Morley that Betty’s nurse has left to be married, so Betty is having tea with us.

  Lady Morley says that is very nice, but obviously does not think so.

  Betty says, “Yes, she’s being married today and she’s going to send us some of her wedding cake—and then she’s going for a honeymoon with Bollings—and then she’s coming back—and when she comes back she isn’t going to sleep with me any more—she’s going to sleep with Bollings—and they’re going to have the big room in the attic—Annie and Bollings are—and it’s been painted and papered—and the paper has got pink roses on it, and that’s Annie’s fav’rite flower—and Annie will be called Mrs. Bollings ever after—and Mrs. Bollings will be written on her letters instead of Miss Wilkes—I should think the postman will get a surprise, don’t you?”

  Lady Morley is too dazed to make any reply, and there is a short, but somewhat strained, silence.

  Pinkie says, “Will you have a piece of cake, Lady Morley?” and she accepts it like a woman in a dream.

  Betty opens her mouth for further revelations, “Annie has got a lovely new—” she begins, but I interrupt her hastily and say that we don’t want to hear any more about Annie just now—Lady Morley would not be interested.

  “Why not?” enquires Betty, looking at Lady Morley in surprise. “Why wouldn’t she be intrusted? I think Annie is a very intrusting person . . . I wonder if she will have twins!”

  I reply with conviction that she will not, and endeavour to change the subject by offering Betty a chocolate biscuit and asking whether she has done her prep., but Betty is not so easily put off.

  “How do you know?” she enquires eagerly. “People always have babies when they’ve been married, so why shouldn’t Annie have twins like Mrs. MacDougall? I think it would be lovely if Annie had twins, because I could look after them for her while she washed the dishes. I think we ought to get two babies’ cots and have them all ready just in case they come suddenly in the middle of the night when Annie isn’t expecting them. It would be awful if we had no beds for them.”

  Pinkie tries to damp Betty’s ardour by saying that Annie won’t have any babies for a long time, and I assert my authority by telling my daughter to go on with her tea and not talk so much.

  Betty says, “All right, I won’t talk any more—I just wanted to know . . . and I don’t see why Annie shouldn’t have twins tomorrow . . .”

  Pinkie says, “How lucky it is that you have got such nice weather for your stay in Donford, Lady Morley. The camp is splendid, isn’t it? I can’t think how they manage to get the tents in such regular lines.”

  I say, “Yes, we were over at the camp the other day, and we thought the lines remarkably regular. Of course Tony is so clever and capable—”

  Pinkie says, “Yes, but don’t you remember he told us that the tents were put up for them before they arrived?”

  I say, “Oh yes, how stupid of me to forget.”

  By this time Lady Morley has recovered a little; she says it is time for her to go, because Tony is coming to dine with her at the hotel and she always rests before dinner. I press her to stay, but not very convincingly; for I feel that I require rest as much as she does. Pinkie seizes her sable cape and puts it over her shoulders; I retrieve her gloves from beneath the table and her bag from beneath the chair. We accompany her to the door—still talking somewhat feverishly—and watch her as she hastens down the path to her large Daimler and is driven away.

  THURSDAY 9TH MAY

  A letter arrives from Bryan.

  “Dear Mummy, How are you getting on? I am getting on O.K. I got here safely and Uncle Richard met me it was dark because of the black out. There were no lights at all except the cars it was not like London but of course it was. It is very nice here and I have got your room that you had when you were a little girl with bars on the windows. It is all like you said I mean the gardens in the middle of the houses and all that. Well we went to a fi
lm and it was not in the afternoon either it was at night so you can ammagine how nice it was. It was Gone with the Wind and it lasted a long time but we had choclate creams to eat. we got a taxy and drove home and it was dark like the night I came. I think they must be rich because the house is so big and they have three servants and a basement and never mind about how many taxies or anything like that and you should just see how many pairs of shoes Uncle Richard has much more than Dad and soots too. I did not look but just saw them when I was in his dressing room and the door was open I mean the wardrope so I think they must be rich. It is jolly good food. Aunt Mary thinks I have nice maners because she said so and she is not so pertickuler as you thought but very nice and just puts a clean towl when its dirty I mean the bathroom one but I do try. We bought some more coders because they get dirty in a minnit almost. It is because of the soot. Aunt Mary liked buying them with me but I payed out of the two pounds so then she bought some choclate for me so I scored. At the restaron where Uncle Richard took us we had lobster and he said you pay the same and it does not matter whether you eat it or not so I was glad he said that at the beginning. Then he said it was worth taking somebody who injoyed their food, so I said well anybody would enjoy lobster. There were people dancing too and we did not go home till half past nine but other nights I go to bed erly to make up. It is his left arm so we were right. She has just come in and said tell Mummy you are a very nice gest so I am telling you. So you dont need to worry. I shall have lots to tell people when I go back to school speshully Edgeburton. It will make a lot of diffrance I mean Edgeburton won’t be so cocky. He’d better not.

  “Please give my love to Pinkie and Betty and love to you too. Your loving Bryan.”

  WEDNESDAY 15TH MAY

  The last few days have been anxious ones for everyone; Pinkie and I have listened to so many news bulletins that we are becoming quite dazed. Pinkie makes the sensible suggestion that we should ration ourselves, and only listen two or three times daily, and I agree, but somehow or other we don’t seem able to keep this resolution, and continue to listen whenever we can. Pinkie says she would not feel so awful if she could do something, and enquires whether I think she could get into the Wrens. When I ask, “Why Wrens?” Pinkie replies, “Well, the Navy’s so marvellous, isn’t it?” We make enquiries about Wrens and find that they will have nobody under eighteen, which rules out Pinkie’s hopes for nearly a year. 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.

  Have just written this when Mamie rings up and says, “Oh Hester, Sergeant Major Craven has been killed and Herbert says I must go and see Mrs. Craven . . . I thought perhaps you would go. You know her better than I do.”

  I reply that I will go tomorrow and enquire whether Herbert has any news of the Battalion, but Mamie knows nothing.

  SATURDAY 18TH MAY

  It is a pleasant custom in Donford for morning shoppers to meet in Ye Olde Tea Shoppe at eleven o’clock and partake of coffee and conversation. Before the war we used to chat about clothes and children and the delinquencies of our servants, but when the war started we talked about the war. Stella Hardford’s nephew is in the R.A.F. and we heard a good deal about his exploits; Mamie Carter’s cook had a cousin who was scullery maid at No. 10 Downing Street, so Mamie was the possessor of Inside Information; Grace MacDougall is always in the know, and was willing to enlighten her friends . . . but soon there was a change in our attitude, for we were told that we were surrounded by spies. Hitler’s agent might be hiding behind the partition which screens the service door; Mussolini’s myrmidon might be lurking beneath the settee. It must be admitted that conversation languished when the war was ruled out as a topic to be discussed in a public place—some of us tried to recapture a little of our pre-war interest in domestic matters, but it was a half-hearted attempt.

  Most of the usual coffee drinkers are already present when I slide into my chair. Stella and Mamie are here to represent the Regiment, and Mrs. Huntley and Mrs. Marsden to represent the town. Mrs. Huntley is talking about food cards, but, as we are all familiar with them and somewhat bored at the extra trouble which they occasion, nobody is very interested in what she is saying, and it is with a feeling of relief that I see the swing door open and Grace MacDougall appear, for Grace usually can be depended upon to enliven the proceedings.

  “Hullo everyone!” exclaims Grace, as she pulls out a chair and seats herself upon it, “Hullo Mamie, how’s Jane . . . what do you call those?” she adds, producing a packet of labels from her shopping bag and placing them on the table.

  “Labels!” cry several of us in surprised chorus.

  Grace nods, “Yes, labels,” she says, “but they call themselves luggage tags—”

  We now perceive that the packet, which Grace has placed upon the table, bears the words “luggage tags” written upon it in large black letters.

  “Luggage tags!” says Grace again. “Why luggage tags? Can anyone tell me why? It’s longer, it’s uglier, it isn’t even more descriptive.”

  “It isn’t only labels,” says Mrs. Marden thoughtfully. “They are altering the names of almost everything, and altering them for the worse.”

  “Footwear,” I suggest, for this particular paronym has always annoyed me profoundly.

  “Yes,” agrees Grace, immediately. “Yes, footwear. What’s the matter with shoes—a good, sound, solid, English word—footwear, indeed!”

  “I went to buy a petticoat and they offered me an underskirt!” cries Mrs. Muntly.

  “I wanted a pair of pyjamas,” says Stella, “and they showed me slumber-suits!”

  “Dental Cream instead of tooth paste,” puts in Mamie eagerly.

  The list grows longer and longer, as we all rack our brains and try to out-do each other in suggesting further examples of homologous names. “Neck wear” and “foundation garments” are suggested and condemned.

  Yes, Grace has started a hare which provides good sport, and if Hitler’s agent is lurking behind the screen he will be vastly disappointed.

  TUESDAY 21ST MAY

  Return home from a shopping expedition, and discover that various disasters have befallen my household during my absence; the meat has not arrived in time to be cooked for lunch; Mrs. Fraser has mislaid the key of the store-cupboard, and Annie’s substitute has dropped a valuable cut glass bowl and smashed it to atoms. The bowl was a present from Tim’s uncle and aunt—Uncle Joe and Aunt Posy—and I have always taken the greatest care of it. We have moved fourteen times since our wedding day and the bowl has survived, but Annie’s substitute has been too much for it. What annoys me even more than the actual breakage is the fact that Florence shows no regret and expresses no apology whatsoever—

  “What were you doing with it?” I enquire, as I view the shattered remains. “Why didn’t you leave it alone?”

  “I was having a wee look round,” replies Florence cheerfully.

  “There was no need to move the bowl. It was on the top shelf.”

  “Aye, that’s where it was, I just thocht I’d take it doon and have a luik at it and it slipped oot o’ my hand. You’ll easy get anither.”

  This is adding insult to injury, and I reply, “Indeed I can’t. It was a valuable bowl!”

  Florence smiles in a superior manner, “Oh away!” she says. “It was just a wee glass bowl. Woolworth’s is full o’ wee bowls like yon . . .”

  Words fail me—which perhaps is just as well—and I turn and walk away. I seem to have carried out this manoeuvre several times in the last few days. (I seem to be constantly turning and walking away from Florence) but the fact is she annoys me so much that I cannot trust myself to remain in her vicinity . . . Thank Heaven Annie will be back on Friday, I say to myself, as I go upstairs. . . .

  The tale of disasters is not yet complete, for, as I am about t
o remove my hat, I become aware of strange thumpings and rattlings emanating from the bathroom. My first induction is that Mrs. Fraser has heated up the boiler again (she has a habit of piling on fuel to such an extent that the water boils in the pipes and, on several occasions, we have exchanged bitter words on the subject), but no, this noise is different, it is a human noise (so to speak). I rush to the bathroom door and find it locked.

  “It’s me!” cries Betty from within. “Mummy, it’s me—I’m in here and the lock has stuck—I can’t get out.” She bumps and rattles and bangs at the door in her efforts to liberate herself, and I realise that her imprisonment is driving her quite mad.

  “Betty, don’t!” I cry, “Don’t bang on the door. Try it slowly. Hold the key with both hands.”

  “I’ve tried every way,” she declares. “I’ve tried and tried . . . so now I’m just banging.”—and with that comes the sound of a soft but fairly solid body being hurled against the unyielding wood.

  “Betty, stop it at once,” I cry. “There’s no need to be frightened. I’ll send for the plumber and he’ll take off the lock.”