Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  The lions are in large cages on wheels; we pass them on our way to the Big Top, and I am glad to see that the poor animals look healthy and well cared for. In front of us there is a woman with two children whom she is incapable of controlling. They climb upon the shafts of the carts and pay no heed to her shouts. Betty watches them with interest, and I can see that she admires their defiance of authority and would emulate it if she dared. The woman shouts louder, and finally grips them by their legs and cries, “Come doon, ye wee de’ils! I’ll gie ye tae the lions for their denners.”

  This threat has no effect upon the imps at all—for they are inured to empty threats—but its effect upon Betty is remarkable. She seizes my hand and cries in accents of dismay, “Oh Mummy, don’t let her—don’t let her, Mummy!” It takes several minutes to convince Betty that the children’s mother has no intention of feeding her offspring to the lions.

  By this time we have arrived at the Circus Tent, and are shown to our seats by a dwarf attired in green satin. He is about the same height as Betty, and has a round cheery face. Betty asks in a loud whisper whether I think he is “out of Snow White”; the dwarf, overhearing this, chuckles delightedly and tells Betty that he has been given a holiday from the diamond mines so that he can take part in the circus. Betty would fain continue this interesting conversation, but the dwarf is too busy.

  Having settled ourselves comfortably (or as comfortably as the hard benches will allow) we can look round and enjoy the fun. The circus has not started yet, but there is plenty to see. The Big Top is astonishingly large and well-lit and the circle of green grass in the middle, which is really a piece of Donford Common, is an excellent arena. Just along from where we are sitting I see Mamie Carter and her nurse and children, and Stella Hardford is with her. Stella wears a bored expression and obviously is in no mood to enjoy a childish entertainment such as this.

  Pinkie says suddenly, “Look, there he is . . . look, over near the pillar!” and I look across the ring and see Bryan and his new friend. They have chosen seats as close to the magic circle as possible so that nothing that happens shall escape their notice. The young Pole is large and sturdily built with curly fair hair and blue eyes. I observe him carefully (for to tell the truth I have been a trifle anxious about this friendship) but his face is open and honest and very young, and I can believe that Bryan feels him to be a contemporary . . . I am still looking at him when he turns towards Bryan and smiles with real affection, which is pleasant to see. Bryan’s face wears an expression of sheer bliss, and I realise that this is probably one of the happiest moments of his life, for, not only is he prepared to enjoy the entertainment himself, but he is giving enjoyment to his friend . . . they are laughing together now, and Bryan is pointing to a clown who has tumbled into the arena and is rubbing his head and pretending to be very angry . . . the clown has baggy trousers and a red nose and a small green hat with a feather in it.

  The band strikes up and the circus starts in earnest, and it is a good deal better than one might have expected. There are conjurors and acrobats and tightrope-walkers; there are horses and bears and performing dogs. There is a real live elephant; there are lions.

  The audience is an appreciative one, and it looks to me as though Stella Hardford is the only person in the tent who is not enjoying the fun. Her face remains coldly disdainful, and whenever I look in her direction she seems to be yawning. Why has she come, I wonder. What did she expect to see? The turns are not very wonderful, perhaps, but they are by no means feeble, and apart from the actual performance there is so much to see that it is almost inconceivable that anyone could be bored. The children’s expressions—astonished, exultant, hilarious, as turn succeeds turn—are an entertainment in themselves.

  There is so much to see; it is such a human sort of affair; it is a glimpse into a life which is entirely different from one’s own life, and yet is lived by people very like oneself. Take “Rose Killarney” for instance. She is a nice-looking woman of about my own age and is attired in a pink satin ball dress. She climbs a silver pole and walks the tightrope with a little parasol to balance herself . . . a strange life! Is she happy, I wonder. Does she like wandering about the country? What is she really like? What does she feel? Is she proud of her accomplishment, or is she sick to death of walking the tightrope in a pink satin dress? Then there is the clown who is the laughingstock of the show; he is the butt of everyone and succeeds (very cleverly) in getting in everyone’s way . . . is he really a butt, or is he a respected member of the little society to which he belongs? The “Dolly Sisters” who ride upon a fat old horse and jump very neatly through paper hoops are really mother and daughter. The daughter is a bit of a minx and enjoys showing off. The mother is a trifle stiff in the joints, and there is a little crease of anxiety and apprehension between her brows . . . She is wondering what will happen to her when the day comes—the dreaded day—when she finds that she cannot jump through any more hoops, when her limbs refuse to obey her will, or her nerve fails her.

  There is a circus within a circus here. The lion-tamer, a catlike man in smoothly fitting tights, makes eyes at the Dolly Daughter as she canters out of the ring . . . what gossip, what scandal, what chatter there must be amongst the people of this little world. How they must watch each other! How they must scheme and love and hate! Their little world is so circumscribed, it moves on an axis of its own and the people in it can have little contact with the larger world outside.

  I avoid Stella and Mamie as we squeeze our way out through the crowd, for I have enjoyed myself and have no wish to listen to their criticisms of our afternoon’s entertainment. We meet Bryan outside the gate and walk home together very cheerfully.

  Pinkie enquires, “What are you thinking about?” and I reply that I am thinking that the circus is very like a Regiment . . .

  WEDNESDAY 11TH SEPTEMBER

  After a long morning at the “Comforts Depot,” Grace and I decide to walk along the shore. We have done this before with great benefit to body and soul, and there is no reason why we should not repeat the prescription.

  “I think we should do this every Wednesday,” says Grace, and I agree that we might do worse.

  It is a brilliant day with a rough wind; the sea is deep blue flecked with white horses.

  “Gorgeous!” exclaims Grace somewhat breathlessly, as she seizes her hat and jams it more firmly on to her head.

  “Simply splendid!” I reply.

  We struggle along until we reach the shelter of the cliffs, and here we pause for a few moments to admire the view. The tide is out, and the sweep of firm brown sand stretches for miles, but the war has brought changes even here, for the shore is dotted with strong posts sunk in concrete, and there are concrete pill-boxes and coils of barbed wire hidden amongst the rocks. Personally I think that these evidences of conflict spoil the beauty of the view, but Grace says she can shut her eyes to them and see the view exactly as if they were not there. It only requires a slight effort of concentration to perform this feat, says Grace, and she adds that she wishes Jack were here instead of cooped up in the Orderly Room with a lot of dusty files . . . “Jack would appreciate the beauty of it,” says Grace.

  My acquaintance with Jack has not led me to believe that he has much eye for the beauties of nature (I have always thought him essentially practical), but I agree with Grace that it would be lovely if Jack and Tim were here.

  I have scarcely spoken when we come round a high point of rock and find ourselves in a small secluded bay, and in the middle of the curve of sand we behold our two husbands struggling together—apparently in mortal combat. The sight is so unexpected and alarming that we stop dead in our tracks, and, at that moment, Jack is lifted in the air and flung heavily on to the ground. This breaks the spell. Grace and I rush forward shouting “Jack” and “Tim” respectively, but by the time we reach the scene of battle Jack has risen and Tim is brushing the sand from his tunic and enquiring with solicitude whether he is hurt.

  “Were you fight
ing?” asks Grace in breathless tones.

  Jack says, “Yes,” and Tim says, “No,” simultaneously. Then they look at each other and laugh.

  “Well, what on earth were you doing?” asks Grace.

  At first they refuse any explanation of the incident, and then they tease us by offering us various wild and obviously untrue interpretations of its meaning. (Tim declares that he lent Jack five bob and Jack refused to repay it, and Jack declares that he discovered Tim was selling secrets to the enemy.) But eventually, by persevering in our endeavours, we discover that our husbands have been practising “Unarmed Combat” in a purely friendly spirit, and that Jack has had the worst of it.

  “Tim is marvellous!” declares Jack. “He chucked me about as if I were made of straw,” to which amazing statement Tim modestly replies “We did quite a lot of the stuff in France.”

  Now that they have started to talk about it they seem to have plenty to say on the subject, and Grace and I are informed that there are no rules at all . . . “You can kick or hit or squeeze,” declares Jack gravely. “You can trip the fellow or swipe him with your tin hat or poke him in the stomach, or gouge his eyes . . . it’s grand sport.”

  Tim says it’s the wrestling that interests him. They had an instructor attached to them; he was quite small and slight, but he could throw the beefiest brawniest man in the Battalion without turning a hair.

  I enquire whether Tim and Jack came out with the express intention of practising Unarmed Combat upon the shore, but Tim scouts the idea. “Good Lord, no,” he replies. “We haven’t time for that. We came to have a look at the defences—the pill-boxes and barbed wire. They’re dashed good, as a matter of fact, aren’t they, Jack?”

  Grace and I are delighted to hear this report, but Jack is far from satisfied; he says that in his opinion the defences of Donford Bay are far too good. Nobody in their senses would attempt an invasion. It would be better policy to encourage the enemy to land in this country . . . then we should have him by the short hairs.

  Tim enquires how Jack would encourage the enemy to land, does he suggest sending Hitler an invitation? To which Jack replies, “No, of course not, that would defeat our purpose. We should pretend that we’re frightened.”

  As we turn and walk back together Grace tries to get Jack to admire the scenery. She points out the glorious colour of the sea, and adds that the wide sweep of sands is tinged with purple, but Jack refuses to see the purple tinge in the sand, and declares that sand looks brown to him, because it is brown. Grace immediately retorts that the water in the sea is not really blue, so she supposes that the sea does not look blue to Jack.

  “I’m not an artist,” says Jack, begging the question, “and if my family hadn’t insisted on my going into the Service I should have been an engineer. I should have been more useful as an engineer, I’m certain. I’ve got ideas,” declares Jack earnestly. “I’ve got a flair for engineering. Look at this enormous bay, for instance. Why don’t we build a dam across the entrance and make all that waste space into profitable land? That’s what they’ve done in Holland, but we haven’t got the initiative.”

  Tim looks at the bay and murmurs that there might be something in it.

  “Hundreds of acres!” declares Jack, waving his arms excitedly. “We should have hundreds of acres of profitable land for growing food instead of this barren waste, which is no good to anybody.”

  Grace objects to this and says that the stretch of sand is useful because of its beauty. We need beauty in our lives. She quotes a proverb or saying (I think it is Chinese) which advises its hearers that if they have two loaves they should sell one and buy a flower. Jack allows that that might be quite a reasonable thing to do if you could be certain of getting another loaf before your remaining loaf was finished, but, if not, it would be sheer madness . . . “You couldn’t admire a flower if you were hungry,” adds Jack with conviction.

  THURSDAY 12TH SEPTEMBER

  Pinkie does a good deal of telephoning (but not at our expense, for she is almost invariably the recipient of the call) and as the telephone is situated, most inconveniently, in the hall her conversations are audible to the entire household. “Yes, Nick . . .” she is saying, “yes, of course I could. Yes, it is a lovely day for it . . . three o’clock? Yes, that will suit me splendidly . . . Oh, Nick, hold on . . . will you call for me or what? . . . All right . . . yes, three o’clock . . .”

  It is difficult—in fact it is almost impossible to keep track of Pinkie’s friends, but I feel that it is my duty to try, and as “Nick” is an entirely new name to me I feel justified in making enquiries about him. Pinkie is not of a secretive nature, and is only too ready to enlighten me; she explains that Nick is the Polish lieutenant who came to tea. His name is quite unpronounceable and, as it begins with “Nick”, she has asked and been granted permission to use the sobriquet . . . “and he’s going to call me Rose Marie,” adds Pinkie, smiling. “It will be rather nice because nobody ever calls me by my proper name. Nick says it is such a pretty name—much prettier than Pinkie.”

  “Yes,” I reply, a trifle doubtfully, “Yes, I see.”

  “We’re going to walk along the shore to the Hermit’s Cave,” Pinkie continues cheerfully. “I told him about it the other day and he wants to see it. You don’t mind, do you?”

  It is poor fun to be a spoil sport, but the idea of Pinkie and her latest friend setting forth upon a solitary walk to the Hermit’s Cave is somewhat alarming. I consider the matter hastily and decide that I must be firm.

  Pinkie does not understand my tactful objections—“But you liked him, darling!” she exclaims.

  “I liked him immensely, but we know nothing about him . . . he might misunderstand.”

  “Oh, he often does, poor lamb!” declares Pinkie, with a chuckle, “That’s half the fun, really. You see he can’t speak French, so our only means of communication is his lame English . . . sometimes we have to draw pictures to make each other understand.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” I explain, sticking to the point tenaciously. “I mean he might think it odd if you went for a walk with him by yourself. I don’t suppose his sisters—if he has any—would be allowed to go for a walk alone with a man.”

  Pinkie is no fool. “Oh, I see,” she says, “Yes, I daresay they have different ideas. It seems silly when there’s a war on.”

  “It does, rather,” I agree.

  Pinkie considers the matter. “How would it do if you came with us?” she enquires.

  “Me!” I exclaim in amazement.

  “Yes,” says Pinkie, warming to her plan. “Yes, it’s a marvellous idea. You’d like the walk, wouldn’t you? Nick was awfully keen to see the Hermit’s Cave . . . and if you came too . . . well, that would make it perfectly all right, wouldn’t it?” It would, of course, but I am extremely doubtful whether Nick would be as enthusiastic as Pinkie at the presence of a third party and, as I am not at all keen on playing gooseberry, I raise every objection that I can.

  “But he likes you!” cries Pinkie. “He says you are ‘full of attractiveness’ so of course he will be pleased. How could anyone not be pleased to see you, darling?”

  The argument continues throughout lunch and at two o’clock is still unsettled, when the telephone bell rings. I suggest that Pinkie shall answer the telephone, as it is probably for her, and she rushes away to do so . . . “Yes,” says Pinkie, “Yes, it is . . . Oh Goodness, I’d forgotten! . . . Yes, oh yes, of course. No, it would never do . . . Well, as a matter of fact I’d forgotten about it . . . yes, but it will be all right.”

  The receiver is replaced, and Pinkie returns somewhat crestfallen, “I’ve done an awful thing,” she declares. “I’d promised Bill to play tennis and he’s taken the court and arranged a four . . . I’d forgotten, you see.”

  “Awkward for you,” I suggest, feeling like a reprieved criminal.

  “Very awkward,” Pinkie agrees. “I’ll have to go, I’m afraid, so would you mind seeing Nick when he calls for me, and e
xplaining about it?”

  It is not until Pinkie has departed with her tennis racquet that I realise what I have let myself in for. The matter is delicate, and the greatest diplomacy will be necessary, but how can one use diplomacy when one is hampered by linguistic inadequacy? The more I think about the prospective interview the more alarmed I become, until I finally determine to go out myself and leave Nick to his fate. I gather my knitting together and stuff it into the bag, and am about to rise and beat a hasty retreat when I hear the front door bell ring violently, and realise that the decision was reached too late, and that my line of retreat is cut.

  Nick comes in smiling—he really is a most charming person—and, when we have greeted each other and shaken hands politely, I invite him to be seated.

  “Rose Marie is nearly ready?” he enquires.

  “No,” I reply, “No, she is very sorry she cannot go this afternoon. She made a mistake—a muddle, you know—she forgot she had promised to play tennis and so—”

  “You not allow,” he says, shaking his head sadly. “No, I thought that. You not allow.”

  “She made a muddle of her arrangements,” I tell him, trying to speak very slowly and clearly.

  “Yes,” agrees Nick—I am obliged to call him Nick, for I have no other name for him—“Yes, it is me make the muddle. I should not ask Rose Marie, no?”

  “It was very good of you to ask her.”

  “Good?” he enquires in a puzzled voice, “but yes, it is true, I would be very good. Still you do not allow that she come—no?”

  “She forgot,” I explain, trying not to shout. “She did not remember that she had promised to play tennis.”

  “It was to walk not tennis that she promise,” declares Nick firmly, “and I have said yes, I will be good. So you allow that she come, yes?”