Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  “She’ll do all she can,” declares Guthrie. “You don’t know Mother . . . Oh well, I suppose we had better wire and say we’ll go tomorrow.”

  Pinkie says, “Why wire? Why not just go today? We can catch the 3:30 train, if Hester will take us over to Breck Station.”

  This surprises Guthrie and he enquires why Pinkie is in such a desperate hurry, to which question Pinkie replies by snatching the telegram and pointing out the word “immediately.”

  Guthrie says, “Yes, but why should we?”

  “Because she’s your Mother, Guthrie darling,” says Pinkie firmly.

  I am so delighted with Pinkie that I could hug her, but I manage to refrain from showing my feelings, and suggest that, if the 3:30 is to be caught, Pinkie must pack her things before lunch. Guthrie says he must pack too, but, instead of departing forthwith, he keeps me standing in the hall for at least five minutes while he rhapsodises over Pinkie and repeats that nothing his Mother can do or say will induce him to give her up . . . finally I push him out of the door by main force and follow Pinkie to her room to help her with her packing.

  It is just as well that I have decided to help Pinkie for when I open the door I find her standing in the middle of the room with her hands clasped in front of her, and her packing not even started . . .

  “Oh Hester!” she says, “Oh Hester, I’m frightened! I’m not grown-up enough, or something.”

  I enquire anxiously whether she has changed her mind about Guthrie, and assure her that if she has changed her mind she must tell me at once and I will put everything right.

  “Oh no,” says Pinkie earnestly. “Oh no, I’m quite grown-up enough for that . . . it’s Mrs. Loudon . . . I’ve never had to do anything important . . . like this . . . before.”

  “You needn’t be afraid of Mrs. Loudon.”

  “She may not like me,” says Pinkie anxiously.

  Fortunately I am able to reassure Pinkie as to her reception by her prospective mother-in-law and although I refrain from disclosing the actual facts, I am able to tell Pinkie enough to give her confidence.

  We start to pack, and, while we pack, Pinkie talks excitedly and somewhat incoherently, “Darling, I hate leaving you,” she declares, “but you’ll let me come back when Guthrie goes to sea, won’t you? I could bear it better if I was here with you . . . no, I won’t take that frock, it’s too tight for me and I look like a pincushion. Perhaps Annie would like it . . . Oh Hester, I feel full of bubbles, only it’s a nice feeling and it wouldn’t really feel nice if you were full of bubbles, would it? . . . I wanted to tell you ages ago, but I couldn’t, because there wasn’t anything to tell . . . it wasn’t until Guthrie went away . . . and then he wrote to me and of course I answered, and then we went on writing. Of course I knew from the very first moment I saw him lying in bed with his poor hand bandaged . . . and so brave and everything . . . yes, I must take those stockings because they go so well with my tweeds . . . I know, but I’ll darn it . . . darling, you aren’t cross with me for not telling you? Say you aren’t. I couldn’t tell you until I knew whether Guthrie . . . well, as a matter of fact I very nearly told you. Guthrie is thirty . . . yes, I’ll take that jumper . . . thirty is the most perfect age . . . but of course he’s thirty-one now, which is even more perfect. You’re sure Mrs. Loudon won’t hate me? You’re perfectly certain, aren’t you? I mean she won’t think I’m far too young and silly, will she? . . . Oh Hester, you are a comfort to me . . . Yes, I must take those brogues; we must make a place for them somewhere, because I shall be walking on the hills with Guthrie . . . Oh dear, how happy I am! . . . and it’s all you’re doing, Hester . . . I can never never thank you, not if I kept on saying thank you night and day for weeks, so it isn’t any use trying . . . I mean if it hadn’t been for you I should never have met Guthrie . . . it just seems too awful to think of,” says Pinkie, pausing with a pair of knickers in one hand and a single silk stocking in the other, “it just seems too awful to think that I might never have met Guthrie!”

  “Where is the other stocking?” I enquire anxiously.

  “I don’t know . . .” says Pinkie, in a vague sort of tone, “I must have lost it . . . but Hester, do you realise that if I hadn’t gone to the hospital that morning with Mrs. Loudon I wouldn’t have met Guthrie? . . . I didn’t want to go,” declares Pinkie, looking at me wide-eyed, “I very nearly said I wouldn’t . . . and then I was sorry for her because she seemed awfully lonely, somehow, and she seemed to be so anxious for me to go . . . Fancy if I hadn’t gone! Fancy if I hadn’t met Guthrie! Fancy if I had married somebody else! Not that I ever really thought of marrying anybody else—but still . . . No, Hester, those bedroom slippers are absolutely dead. They had better be buried, I think. I just wondered if you could possibly lend me your blue ones . . . I would be frightfully careful of them . . . darling, you are a perfect lamb! . . . Can you find room for this blue scarf because Guthrie said it matched my eyes. He is the sweetest thing, Hester . . . don’t you think so, honestly? There couldn’t ever be anyone else so perfect, could there . . . so absolutely right . . . Won’t it shut? Oh, but it simply must shut . . . No, there’s nothing I could leave behind . . . No, I must take that suede jacket . . . Look, I’ll sit on it! . . . There!” cries Pinkie triumphantly. “There, I thought it would! That’s one advantage of weighing about a ton!”

  Feel very flat tonight without Pinkie, and I can see that Tim misses her too. He says, “It’s very quiet, isn’t it?” and then, after a prolonged silence, he remarks that it will be nice when she comes home. “We shall have to cheer her up of course,” adds Tim thoughtfully. I agree to this. Presently he says, “It will be rather nice when Betty is grown-up, won’t it?” I agree to this also.

  TUESDAY 12TH NOVEMBER

  Am obliged to take the car over to Breck Station to collect a crate of oranges which I have ordered from a fruit merchant in Edinburgh. The crate is larger than I expected, and there is a good deal of discussion between the porter and myself as to how it is to be got into the car. The porter suggests that I should open the sunshine roof and drop the crate in from above, but I do not welcome the suggestion, for I do not see how I shall be able to get it out again, and envisage the possibility of being obliged to keep the crate in the car until its contents are consumed. We could put the crate on the luggage grid, of course, and this would be the most sensible thing to do if I could get the luggage grid open, but it has not been opened for so long that it has stuck and my efforts to turn the key are unavailing. I am still struggling with the key, and trying not to bestow upon it any of the unladylike adjectives which I have picked up from time to time during my thirteen years of Regimental life, when I am hailed by name and turn round to find Captain Baker standing at my elbow.

  “Let me do that,” he says. “Perhaps it needs a little oil . . . just a drop of oil sometimes works wonders . . . there . . . no . . . frightfully stiff, isn’t it . . . yes, there we are!”

  I thank him heartily and, complimenting him upon his resourcefulness, enquire whether he always carries a can of oil in his pocket.

  “Yes, I do,” he replies, laughing. “I find it most useful when the balloons are recalcitrant, and it creates an impression of efficiency. Is this crate to go on? Let me lash it on for you.”

  He lashes it on in a most professional manner and again I have cause to thank and praise him.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” he says, surveying his handiwork with satisfaction.

  “Why is it funny?” I enquire.

  “Because I used to be so helpless,” replies Captain Baker frankly. “I used to be an absolute footler, and I accepted the fact philosophically and never made the slightest attempt to train my hands to serve me better.”

  “But you were a professor . . . and clever people—”

  “A lecturer,” says Captain Baker smiling. “There’s a good deal of difference, you know. I was merely a lecturer on zoology and not particularly brilliant—or at any rate not brilliant enough to excuse incompetence.�
� He hesitates for a moment and then adds, “I’m awfully glad I met you, Mrs. Christie. We’re going away on Friday and I wanted to say good-bye.” I am sorry he is going away, and tell him so, and ask if he could come and have supper with us some evening before he goes. Tim would like to meet him again, and I might hear the end of the cricket match, but Captain Baker replies regretfully that he has not an evening to spare.

  “I suppose I mustn’t ask where you’re going,” I enquire.

  He smiles and says that he has not the least idea . . . “I’m glad I met you,” he says again. “I’ve often thought about that talk we had at the MacDougalls’. I’ve often wondered whether you considered me a pessimist of the deepest dye.”

  “You were a trifle gloomy,” I tell him. “But you were right and the optimists were wrong.”

  Captain Baker acknowledges this and adds that he wishes it had been otherwise. “I felt gloomy,” he continues earnestly. “I had a horrible feeling of apprehension. Everyone seemed so pleased and so convinced that things were going well . . . but I could not believe them. If I had been a Celt I might have thought myself ‘fey’, but nobody could be psychic with a name like mine . . . no, it was just a feeling of apprehension, no more and no less. It lay over my spirits like a black cloud . . . and then, when the worst happened and France collapsed and we were left to face the enemy alone, my spirits rose and I felt like a different being. Wasn’t that strange?”

  “I can understand it.”

  “Can you?” enquires Captain Baker. “That’s very interesting. Perhaps you felt the same. It was a most extraordinary feeling. I went about saying to myself, ‘now we know where we are; now we can face up to it,’ and we have faced up to it, haven’t we? It takes something pretty grim to stir us up, and set our feet on the Warpath, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes . . . how do you feel about things now?” I enquire anxiously.

  Captain Baker laughs and says, “I believe you think I’m ‘fey’ in spite of my name!”

  “Well, you were right before.”

  “Yes, but I might not be right again . . . however, if it’s any consolation to you I can tell you this: I feel grand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, grand. The jackal is getting his tail twisted by the Greeks, and we’re going to get at him soon—I feel quite sure of it.”

  “What about the tiger?” I enquire.

  “Ah, Shere Khan!” says Captain Baker. “It will take a bit longer before we can hope to see his skin spread upon the Council Rock . . . but the day will come.”

  The conversation has been extremely interesting, but time is getting on and I must get home to lunch. We shake hands cordially, and Captain Baker says he hopes we shall meet again.

  “Good hunting!” I exclaim, as I climb into the car and drive off, and Captain Baker echoes the Jungle cry. I have only met him three times, but I feel as if I knew him quite well.

  MONDAY l8TH NOVEMBER

  Letters received from Bryan and Pinkie.

  “Dear Mum, How are you getting on? There was an air raid in the middle of the rugger match so we all had to go in. Old Parker said it was a draw, but it was not a draw because we were 3 and they were 2 and we could have socked them. It was a swizz. Edgeburton’s father came and he took me out two. We had a fine old blow out. We did not have baken because of the rashons and their were no eggs because they are not laying still it was a good blow out. He is only a captain so Edgeburton need not swank. The wressling is useful. Snodgrass is 13 and bigger than me a good bit but I could not bare his cheek any more. It was not quite such a good show as when I nocked Captain McDoogle down but it might have been worse. Snodgrass was serprised. Please tell Wojciech it is being useful. I wish we had a nice house where we could ask people for the hols sometimes. Some of the people ask me for the hols but I like coming home but I wish we had a big house and then we could ask people sometimes don’t you? Its passed half term. I hope their will be snow in the Xmas hols. Would anyone give me a tobogan? I mean if anyone wants to know what I want thats what I want. Love from Bryan.”

  Avielochan.

  “My darling Hester, I never seem to have time to write letters, but I have just told Guthrie that he is to be quiet until I have finished. It is lovely here, I think it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen and we are so happy. Guthrie and I just suit each other. We like the same things. We go for long walks over the hills and Guthrie takes his gun and shoots for the pot. He shoots anything we happen to see, but we do not see very much because we talk too much. Guthrie shot a grey hen in the woods and we are going to have it for dinner. I have had one or two nice talks with Guthrie’s mother. I was frightened of her at first, but not now. She is very shy, I think, and that makes her fierce. I think she likes me because I like her so much and I am sure I should not like her if she did not like me. It is lovely to hear all about Guthrie when he was little. Guthrie says he wishes there was someone to tell him what I was like when I was little, but of course there isn’t anyone. Guthrie’s mother has given me a sweet photograph of him when he was five. Hester darling, I am trying to write sensibly, but it is difficult because I can’t think of anything except Guthrie. Of course we both know that he has got to go back to his ship—we have only got five days—but the main thing is we have found each other. It is awfully kind of you to say I am to come back to Winfield when Guthrie goes away. It will make all the difference. Guthrie wants me to go out now so I must stop. Lots of love from Your loving Pinkie.

  “P.S. Guthrie sends his love.

  “P.P.S. Guthrie has just heard that his leave has been extended until the 10th December!!!”

  SUNDAY 24TH NOVEMBER

  We have not seen much of Tony Morley lately, for he has been busy giving his Battalion its final polish before its departure for Egypt, and has had no time to visit his friends. Today, however, Tim and I have been invited to lunch at the camp and we walk over in good time for the meal. There are only ourselves and George Craddock and Tony himself, but he gives us a “Party” lunch and excuses the extravagance by explaining that he wishes to leave an impression of good cheer behind him when he departs to warmer climes. Tim is asking Tony all sorts of questions about the Battalion, so George and I have a conversation to ourselves. He enquires for Pinkie and says he has received a letter from her and is delighted to hear of her engagement. He says it so frankly and sincerely that I believe his words and realise that, in George’s case, Pinkie’s method has been successful.

  “Pinkie is simply splendid,” declares George, smiling cheerfully. “It’s been grand having her as a friend . . . and of course we shall go on being friends. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t, is there?”

  “None whatever,” I reply with conviction.

  “We’re going to write, of course,” says George. “Pinkie has promised to write. I hope she will.”

  “Pinkie always does what she says—keeps her promises I mean.”

  “Yes,” agrees George. “There’s no nonsense about her. When she says a thing she means it.”

  It is my turn to talk to Tony now; I ask him how he likes the idea of Active Service, and he replies that he is looking forward to it very much. “You see, I’ve made something and I want to try it out,” he explains quite gravely. “I’ve made a fighting weapon and I want to see how it works. I’ve created this Battalion out of a rabble—well, it was almost a rabble when I took it over—and it hasn’t been all beer and skittles. Sometimes I’ve been in despair over it. Sometimes I’ve cursed the day when I took on the job. I’ve laughed over it and I’ve cried over it,” declares Tony, with one of his comical sideways looks, “I’ve torn out my hair by the roots . . . but gradually the thing has taken shape . . . it’s been very interesting.”

  “You’re satisfied with it?” I ask.

  “Good heavens, no!” cries Tony, screwing up his face in emphasis. “Satisfied! Good heavens I should think not. I told you before it would take me five years to do the job properly. That was in March, wasn’t it?�
��

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Well, this is November, so I’ve had eight months. It’s a Battalion now—that’s about all that can be said—it’s got cohesion, and quite an idea of the purpose for which it is intended; its esprit de corps is . . . well, as a matter of fact it’s pretty good . . . Have some more lamb?”

  “No thank you. Tony, tell me this, is it better or worse than you expected?”

  Tony’s eyes twinkle, “It’s better,” he replies, “but I chose the piece myself. I went to the butcher and said, ‘Show me the best piece of lamb you’ve got, because there’s a very particular lady coming to lunch with me,’ so he showed me a piece of loin and this is it.”

  “Tony, you know quite well I didn’t mean the lamb—it’s perfect—it melts in the mouth. I asked you about the Battalion—”

  “It’s tough,” says Tony promptly. “Tough as blazes . . . that’s one thing I can say about it, cross my heart.”

  “Perhaps I’d better go, if you’ll excuse me, sir,” says George, consulting his watch in an anxious manner.

  “Oh!” says Tony. “Oh, there’s no hurry . . . Church Parade,” he explains. “We’ve got our padre now. A brand new one, very young and keen, so we’ve got to live up to him, haven’t we, Craddock.”

  “Yes, but he’s awfully decent,” declares George. “I’m sure he’ll be splendid when he gets into the way of things . . . I mean it’s difficult at first.”

  “Yes,” agrees Tony. “He hasn’t been used to Jocks. Last Sunday he preached too long a sermon, didn’t he, Craddock?”

  “Forty-seven and a half minutes,” says George in hushed tones.

  “Was it?” enquires Tony with interest. “Was it really, Craddock? Oh well, I think he realises his mistake. I wondered,” continues Tony somewhat diffidently, “I wondered if you and Tim would like to come this afternoon. The service is to be in the village church—”