Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  THURSDAY 12TH DECEMBER

  I arrive at Winch Hall at teatime which is, I think, the right hour for a guest to arrive on a visit . . . the right hour not only for the guest, but for the hostess. At teatime the day’s activities are over, and the hostess is ready for conversation, and there is an intimate quality about teatime which makes the guest feel at home. Uncle Joe and Aunt Posy are the best kind of host and hostess (they do not fuss over one, but simply accept one into their household as an active member) and Winch Hall is a lovely place to stay. I have stayed here before, of course, but not very often, for Tim and I have moved about so much that we have not had much time for visiting.

  The house is not very large; it is old and comfortable and a trifle shabby. The drawing room is early Victorian—a period piece—not of set purpose, but merely because it has not been altered since early Victorian times. It is not very comfortable, of course, but that does not matter, for Uncle Joe and Aunt Posy use the morning room to sit in and the morning room is the cosiest room imaginable. Brown is the predominant colour here; the carpet is beige and brown, the heavy curtains are brown and blue, the deep leather chairs shine like horse chestnuts. The bow window has a wide window seat upon which one can sit and look down the sloping garden and over the wide fields and trees. There are books on the shelves and magazines on the side table and baskets for the spaniels, in which they are supposed to lie, but never do, preferring the hearth rug, where they can be near the feet of their gods and the warmth of their gods’ fire. It is a peaceful room, a friendly room. You could not imagine loud harsh voices here, nor ugly scenes. I feel this more strongly than ever this cold frosty evening when I arrive and am welcomed to the fire which blazes merrily in the wide old-fashioned grate. Uncle Joe insists that I shall sit in his chair because it is warmer there . . . Aunt Posy’s plump hands busy themselves with the tea equipage which stands on a round gate-legged table before the fire. There is much to talk about, for they want to know all my news, and they want to see the latest photographs of the children, and they want to hear details of Tim’s adventures in France. Uncle Joe is particularly interested in the details of the retreat for he is an old soldier and a distinguished one. Most of his service was done abroad—he was attached to the Egyptian Army, and was afterwards in India—he looks like the peppery old colonel beloved of Punch, but his heart is of gold. Aunt Posy was with him in India—for he never married—she followed the drum for years and now she is settled with him at Winch Hall running the house in a capable manner. Although he is slight and quick and somewhat excitable and she is plump and placid, there is a strong family resemblance between the brother and sister.

  I am still trying to satisfy Uncle Joe and to answer his searching questions anent the Retreat to Dunkirk when an Air Raid signal breaks the peace. While I was in London I became quite hardened to the eerie sound and learned to take no notice of its import, but it seems different here; I look enquiringly at my host and hostess to see how they are reacting.

  Uncle Joe smiles and says, “We’ve got an excellent shelter in the wine cellar. We used to go down whenever the siren sounded, but we got a bit tired of it.”

  “Perhaps Hester would like to go down,” puts in Aunt Posy, looking at me anxiously.

  I reply that I am perfectly happy where I am, but merely wished to know the local rules.

  Uncle Joe laughs. “That’s the spirit!” he declares. “As a matter of fact planes pass over constantly on their way to London, but they are making for more important objectives than Cobstead. If you happen to see a plane when you’re out it’s a different matter, of course. You should make for the nearest ditch.”

  Aunt Posy lifts her head from her embroidery for a moment and says, “And if there isn’t a ditch you must lie down perfectly flat . . . not in the road, of course, but in a field. There is usually a gate.”

  “Is it necessary?” I enquire, for somehow or other I cannot imagine myself taking cover in this manner.

  “Necessary!” echoes Uncle Joe, “It may be necessary or it may not, but it’s better to be on the safe side. They’ve been known to machine gun people on the roads.”

  “You must always do it, dear,” declares Aunt Posy firmly. “You must take shelter whenever you hear their engines. The engines say ‘For you, for you, for you’, so it is quite easy to know the difference. There is no need to be ashamed of taking cover—all good soldiers do.”

  Uncle Joe chuckles and says, “I was talking to the Vicar this morning—just by the lych gate—and a Jerry came over the trees. We were both in the ditch before you could say Jack Robinson. He’s younger than I am, but I beat him by a short head.”

  “Joe, you never told me!” cries Aunt Posy reproachfully.

  “I’ve only just remembered it this moment,” replies Uncle Joe. “It was damn funny, and I thought at the time how amused you would be . . . and then I forgot to tell you. Old Brooke rolled into the ditch like a cannon ball—it was full of brambles too!”

  “Mr. Brooke is very fat,” explains Aunt Posy.

  “. . . and very pompous,” adds Uncle Joe grinning wickedly.

  “He moves rather slowly as a rule, and wears such a dignified air that you can almost see his prospective gaiters.”

  “Joe!”

  “Well, it’s perfectly true . . . but this morning,” says Uncle Joe, laughing heartily at the recollection, “this morning when I saw him come crawling out of the ditch on his hands and knees with brambles clinging round his neck . . . and mud in his hair . . .”

  “Joe, you didn’t laugh!” cries Aunt Posy in alarm.

  “Of course I laughed. Anyone would have laughed. I nearly split my sides.”

  “Oh dear, I hope he wasn’t hurt. I shouldn’t like to hurt his feelings. He really is so very kind and nice—and so good to the village people—”

  “He laughed too,” Uncle Joe assures her.

  It is now nearly six o’clock, and Aunt Posy takes me up to my bedroom and talks to me while I unpack. I have always noticed that she likes to get me alone, and she talks more and faster when Uncle Joe is absent, but the reason for this is not because she is in awe of her brother, but because she is of the generation which was taught to keep women’s talk for women’s ears. I hear domestic news now—servant-troubles and the scarcity of sugar for jam-making—and am urged to retail my own experiences in this field; I comply by telling Aunt Posy about Annie’s marriage and various other domestic details which would be of no interest at all to Uncle Joe.

  “It is so lovely to have you, dear,” says my hostess with a sigh, “but I do hope you won’t be frightened. We really are in the front line, you know.”

  “Aren’t you frightened?” I enquire with interest, for I have never felt that kind plump Aunt Posy is the stuff of which heroes are made.

  “Not now,” she replies candidly. “I was very frightened indeed two years ago. The Munich Crisis frightened me so dreadfully that I was quite ill. Then, when the war started, I was so miserable about it that I wanted to die . . . but now I want to live and see the end of it.” She hesitates for a moment, and then adds with a little smile, “If you had told me eighteen months ago that German aeroplanes would fly over this house, and that I would not take any notice of them but just go on as usual, I should have thought you were mad!”

  I ask her what has changed her outlook and she replies, “I think we have got beyond being frightened for ourselves. We don’t matter, Hester. It is Britain that matters now. We are all soldiers now . . . I have seen a great many soldiers in my time and they are cheerful people; they don’t trouble about the past or the future, but just do their jobs. Don’t you agree?” I do agree. Strangely enough the idea of Aunt Posy as a soldier of Britain is not in the least comic.

  “We had a bomb,” continues Aunt Posy quietly, “and I believe that helped me more than anything. It fell in the rose garden and made a deep hole and smashed all the drawing-room windows, but nobody was hurt and it was not nearly as bad as I expected. You shall see t
he hole tomorrow,” she adds, smiling at me.

  I make further enquiries about the bomb, and am informed that Joe was very angry, but has now quite recovered from his rage and has decided to use the bomb crater and make a little rock garden there—a sunk garden where they can grow plants requiring shelter and warmth . . . “Don’t change, dear,” adds Aunt Posy, as she goes away. “We never change for supper now. Joe is in the Home Guard, of course, so he goes out at night, and he prefers me not to change either.”

  Supper is a cheerful informal affair and for my part I like it much better than the ceremonious dinner which was de rigueur at Winch Hall before the war. We have fried fish and cauliflower au gratin, cocoa and toast and marmalade, and we finish with apples and pears from the Winch orchards; we rise from the table feeling comfortably fed.

  Nine o’clock is now approaching and Uncle Joe puts down his paper and looks at me enquiringly, “The news,” he says, “you’d like to hear it, wouldn’t you? I have a feeling there may be important news tonight.”

  The wireless is tuned in, and almost immediately we hear Big Ben—it seems curious to hear the familiar strokes reverberating in this quiet country room—then comes the news and Uncle Joe is more than justified in his expectations. It is great news, tremendous news, news of a splendid victory. Sidi Barani has been surrounded and captured by British and Imperial Troops. It is a victory of British Generalship and of British courage and endurance. Thousands of prisoners have been captured, guns and tanks and other war material have been seized, and the Italian Army has been put to flight.

  Uncle Joe is so excited by the stirring news that he is obliged to get up and walk about the room. “Grand!” he cries, his eyes flashing fire, “Splendid! Magnificent! That’s the stuff to give them . . . wish I was there. Capital! This is what I’ve been hoping for. I know that coast . . . been up to Buk Buk myself . . . wish I was there now. We’ve got ’em cold unless I’m very much mistaken . . . the Italians can’t take it . . . haven’t the bulldog strain . . . they’re all right as long as things go well, but now . . . shouldn’t like to be Graziani. He’s in a bit of a hole, if I’m right. That escarpment—what do they call it, ‘Haggag es Solium’—narrows down their line of retreat to a bottle neck . . . and the Navy’s there (the splendid chaps that they are!) and they can blow the road to bits . . . hell, why aren’t I twenty years younger?”

  I have seized a map from Uncle Joe’s table, and have been following his commentary closely.

  “Keep ’em going!” cries Uncle Joe. “Keep ’em on the trot with no time to collect their wits! Not easy, of course, in that sort of country—sand and stones and scrub—transport difficulties must be enormous; but we’ve been preparing for this for months. I knew it. I felt Wavell had something up his sleeve—something pretty good—and Wilson, splendid fellow! We needed this. It’ll have tremendous effect all over Africa—Italians won’t be able to dominate Abyssinia much longer—it’ll have repercussions in Senussi territory, in Libya, too. Well, well, it’s the best news we’ve heard since the war started . . . might be the turning point . . .”

  While he is still talking Uncle Joe is tying a huge knitted muffler round his neck, and struggling into an ancient British Warm which has recently been decorated with an emblem of the Home Guard; he is about to sally forth upon his nightly round of duty. I enquire somewhat diffidently if it would be comme il faut for a mere female to accompany him.

  He looks at me in amazement and says, “You? D’you mean you want to come? . . . Well, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. I just go round the posts and see that everything is all right, you know—just look in and have a bit of a talk with the fellows—”

  “It is dreadfully cold!” murmurs Aunt Posy.

  “Won’t hurt her if she’s warmly clad,” declares Uncle Joe firmly. “Won’t hurt her at all. It’s a fine frosty night and there’s a splendid moon. Run and get your coat, Hester.”

  “Wrap up warmly, dear!” cries Aunt Posy, as I dash out of the room.

  Uncle Joe and I set out together, and a funny couple we make—he is clad in his British Warm and a steel helmet and is armed with an old Service Rifle; I am wearing my fur coat and a woollen bonnet, and am armed with a stick. Aunt Posy comes to the door to see us off and beseeches Uncle Joe to take good care of me . . . “Don’t let her get lost,” says Aunt Posy earnestly. “Take his arm, dear. Keep moving and don’t hang about . . .”

  “Go in, go in!” cries Uncle Joe shooing her away from the door, “You’ll catch your death of cold standing in the draught with nothing on.”

  It is a glorious night, clear and frosty, and the moon is so bright that only the planets are visible in the dome of heaven. The moonlight sparkles on the crystals of frost; and the shadows of the trees and walls and hedges are black and sharply defined. It is very quiet and peaceful. A cow moos softly in its byre as we pass the home farm, and far away there is the sound of a dog barking.

  “I like moonlight,” says Uncle Joe in a reflective voice. “The world is very beautiful clad in moonlight . . . reminds me of a woman in black velvet and diamonds . . . always thought a beautiful woman looked her best in black velvet and diamonds . . . Glad you came?” he enquires, shooting a sideways glance at me as he speaks.

  “Very glad,” I reply.

  “It’s good for us,” he says, as we leave the road and begin to mount a slight rise. “Much better for us than cooking ourselves over the fire. Nobody but a fool wants war, but it’s good for people like me to be shaken up. Alice and I were getting awful old fogies, you know. We were in a rut. We did the same things at the same hour and were upset if anything happened to disturb the routine. If it wasn’t for this war I should be sitting before the fire toasting the soles of my slippers . . . and my pipe going . . . and a whisky and soda at my elbow. Then bed at ten-thirty, regular as clockwork. Instead of that here am I prowling about my fields looking for an enemy.”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe it, Uncle Joe.”

  “Neither can I,” he admits. “I’ve soldiered all over the place, and I’ve seen some fighting in my time—I was on the North West Frontier for years—it seemed natural there . . . but here, in England, the idea of an enemy seems unnatural. We’re actually on the lookout for men landing on our shore with guns in their hands! Sometimes, like you, I can’t believe it . . . and then suddenly I realise that it’s true. England is threatened with invasion—my own fields are threatened—my own house. That makes my blood boil, Hester. It isn’t new of course. England’s been threatened with invasion before—the Spanish, the Dutch, Napoleon—and there have always been men to guard her shores . . . just as we are doing today.”

  “I like that thought!”

  “It’s a good thought,” he agrees. “We’re guarding England. We’re part of England’s history. It stirs the blood, doesn’t it? The old war horse hears the bugle.”

  By this time we have reached the top of the little hill—which boasts the delightful name of Mellow Rise—and we stand still for a few moments gazing out over the moonlit sea and the foreshore. Uncle Joe points out the defences which have been erected, and I notice that they look a good deal more business-like than the defences in Donford Bay. There are two concrete pill boxes—one at each end of Uncle Joe’s property—where the Home Guard keeps watch, and there is a camp of artillery hidden in the wood beyond the stream.

  Hitherto we have been sheltered by the hill, but now that we are standing upon the top of it we can feel a faint breeze stirring from the east, and it is suddenly very cold. Just beside us there are two old oak trees, stunted and gnarled by a thousand storms, and between them is a small ruined hut, made of rough-cut stones. It is roofless and overgrown with ivy and the cement is crumbling, but the walls have been so strongly built that they are still standing.

  “Look at this little house,” says Uncle Joe, laying his hand on the crumbling wall. “I’ve often wondered what it was. It’s too small for a dwelling house—even for the meanest peasant—it isn’t e
ven big enough for a good sized cow. It has often puzzled me and I’ve tried to find out when it was built, and why—but without success. Now I know.”

  “Why was it built?” I enquire.

  Uncle Joe does not reply at once—he is enjoying my curiosity—“Come inside and look through the window,” he says. I do as he tells me, bending my head as I pass through the low doorway and looking round with interest at the thick stone walls. The window is a small square opening which gives on to the sea, and through it can be seen the wide sweep of Cobstead Bay.

  “That’s what it’s for,” says Uncle Joe, “It’s a lookout post. It’s the right place for a lookout post—you couldn’t find a better—and the little window is at exactly the right angle. I got one of the gunners to come and have a look at it and he measured it out, did a lot of calculations and found that he couldn’t have bettered it, himself.”

  “Do you know who built it?” I enquire, looking round with even more interest than before.

  “My great grandfather built it. There’s no doubt about that. You can tell the date of a building from the cement. He must have had it built when Boney was massing his armies to invade England. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “More than interesting. Tell me all that you know about it.”

  Uncle Joe laughs, but he is pleased. “I don’t know much more about the little house,” he replies, “But I can tell you a bit about the old boy who built it. He was a fine old chap—a Joseph like myself—Joseph Christie. We’ve got his portrait (perhaps you’ve noticed it over the fireplace in the hall), a big upstanding man with humorous eyes, and wearing a white stock. Well, that’s Joseph Christie who built this little lookout post and used it when he was guarding England’s shores. I use it too, it keeps the wind off, but I’m going to have it repaired and a new roof put on.”