Contents
Cover
Title Page/About the Book
Contents
Introduction by Alexander McCall Smith
February
March
April
About the Author
Titles by D.E. Stevenson
Furrowed Middlebrow Titles
Mrs. Tim Flies Home – Title Page
Mrs. Tim Flies Home – Chapter I
Copyright
INTRODUCTION
BY ALEXANDER MCCALL SMITH
Dorothy Emily Stevenson is one of those authors who has been largely forgotten in the literary world. Not that she was ever particularly recognised in such circles: she was far too popular to be taken seriously by the critics – she was too comfortable, too easy to read. And yet, in spite of this condescension that is so often dispensed by the guardians of literary standards, Stevenson was bought by millions all over the world and is still appreciated by many readers who continue to read her work. Certainly her books are easy, in the sense that they are clearly written, they tell an intelligible tale, and do not seek to impress the reader. There is also a certain sameness to them. And yet they still have an appeal that has kept them in print. So these are not ephemeral romances of the sort that are instantly forgettable. Nor do they remotely approach the level achieved by that great story-teller of the era, Maugham. They are somewhere in the middle-rung territory below such books, but that is a perfectly good place to be, and a worthy one too. These novels still bring pleasure and remind us of a world, and of a country, that has changed out of all recognition. And as that world becomes more unhappy and divided, the attraction of authors such as Stevenson perhaps becomes stronger.
Dorothy Stevenson was a Scottish author, although she is rarely mentioned in Scottish literary history. She was the bearer of a famous name: she was a member of the Stevenson family of lighthouse engineers who, over several generations, built almost all of Scotland’s lighthouses, including engineering marvels such as the Bell Rock Lighthouse. That makes her a member of the same family as Robert Louis Stevenson, author of classics such as Kidnapped, Treasure Island, and that perennial favourite, A Child’s Garden of Verses. She was born into this family in 1892 and had the typical upbringing of a member of the well-heeled Scottish professional class. She was keen to go to university, but there was little parental support for this ambition, and she made, instead, a conventional marriage to a member of the Peploe family. Her husband, an army officer, was a relative of Samuel Peploe, one of the greatest of Scotland twentieth-century painters and a major figure in the Scottish Colourist movement.
Stevenson was a prolific writer, writing a book a year during the course of a career that lasted until 1969, when her final book was published. Her first success was Mrs Tim and the Regiment; this was soon followed by a series of light and humorous titles. Thereafter her popularity grew, as readers turned with delight to the reappearance of familiar characters and the following of a tried and tested formula. The books eluded the sort of classification that reviewers and scholars like to engage in. They are not simple romances; nor are they anything that would today be recognised as thrillers. They are in a category of their own: clearly-written straightforward tales that take the reader through a clear plot and reach a recognisable and unambiguous ending. The appeal that they have for the contemporary reader lies in the fact that there is no artifice in these books. They are not about dysfunctional people. They are not about psychopathology. There is no gore or sadism in them. The characters speak in sentences and do not resort to constant confrontational exchanges. In other words, these books are far from modern. But therein, perhaps, lies the charm to which Stevenson’s many readers are so quick to respond.
One of the main features of Stevenson’s novels is their simplicity. That is a quality that is not rated in fiction today. Many writers now feel that in order to be noticed they must go out of their way to be clever – even to the extent of being opaque. Nothing should be portrayed as it seems to be; cynicism is all; sincerity is hopelessly naïve. In such a climate, direct stories that follow a fairly strict chronological pattern, that eschew obfuscation, and that place feasible and, in many cases, rather likeable characters centre-stage are not highly regarded. And yet that is exactly what Stevenson does, and that is what many readers still seem to want. Add humour to the equation and the mixture will find a ready audience.
A particular feature of Stevenson’s oeuvre is the way in which characters that appear in one book may crop up in another context in a quite different title. Readers like this because in a way it reflects the way the world is; our lives are not linear narratives – they are meandering stories that take place in diverse settings and that are peopled by characters who drop in and out at various stages. Stevenson is one of those authors, then, who creates a whole world: her novels have that quality that family sagas have, and the story of families, their achievements and disappointments, their tragedies and triumphs, are perennially popular. Why? Because this is, in essence, the experience of most of us. For just about everyone, family life is exactly that: a saga.
Yet they do not ignore the social and political turmoil of the time in which they were written. Stevenson wrote eight novels during the Second World War, and these books certainly have something to say about life on the home front in that period. And that leads to a general conclusion about Stevenson’s work. These are not necessarily novels in which there is a great deal of drama, but for those who wish to spend time amongst characters leading fairly ordinary lives, these novels will provide considerable enjoyment. We don’t want too much excitement. Or, if we do opt for some excitement, we like to moderate it with periods of relative quiet. And then, at the end of these, if there is a happy ending, if lovers are reunited – as they tend to be in Stevenson’s fiction – then all the better. These are gentle books, very fitting for times of uncertainty and conflict. Some books can be prescribed for anxiety – these are in that category. And it is an honourable and important one.
Alexander McCall Smith
MONDAY, 4TH FEBRUARY
This seems a curious day to start a diary. I ought to have started on the first of January, but felt too lazy and depressed. Today I have received a letter from Tim, who is at present in Egypt, saying he hopes I have started another diary, if not will I please begin at once. He is keeping one himself, and it will be fun to compare notes when he returns. “For instance,” says Tim. “What were you doing on the 20th January at 1700 hours?”
After making a hasty calculation I discover that 1700 hours is five o’clock in the afternoon, so it is probable that I was drinking tea, either in my own house or somebody else’s . . . but quite impossible to remember anything at all about it. Was that the day I went to tea with Grace MacDougall and her twins behaved so badly, or was it the day Annie went out, and Betty and I had tea together in the kitchen and amused ourselves by telling fortunes with cards? (There is something rather alarming in the discovery that one’s memory is so unreliable . . . the days slip by and are lost forever.)
Tim continues, “Now that you have finished counting on your fingers, and have discovered the time of day to which I refer, I hope you will be able to satisfy my curiosity. The fact is I had a very strange dream—having fallen asleep over a belated cup of tea—and I should like to know if it is founded upon fact.”
Tim does not tell me his dream, which is most annoying of him. The remainder of his letter is full of a visit to the Sphinx and of enquiries as to the welfare of the children (how is Bryan getting on at Harton, and have I discovered a suitable boarding school for Betty to go to after Easter?) and I am so annoyed with Tim, and so full of burning curiosity about his dream that I decide to write at once and tell him that
the Sphinx has nothing on him for tantalizing mystery.
At this moment the door flies open and Grace MacDougall rushes in, full of excitement. “It’s all right,” she cries, waving a letter at me. “It’s absolutely all right. Erica says yes.”
Grace is frequently excited, for she is a young woman full of nervous energy, so her abrupt entry does not disturb me in the least. I point to a chair and ask her to be seated and congratulate her upon finding a nurse for the twins.
“A nurse!” exclaims Grace in amazement. “But I haven’t! There aren’t any. What on earth do you mean?”
“‘Erica says yes,’” I quote briefly.
“Erica!” exclaims Grace. “Oh, I see! Oh, of course I didn’t tell you about it, did I? The fact is I didn’t want you to be disappointed, and of course I didn’t know what she’d say until I asked her, so I thought—”
“Who is Erica?” I enquire.
“Erica Clutterbuck, of course. I’m sure I must have mentioned her.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a most extraordinary name.”
Grace smiles. She has a very delightful smile which makes her look prettier than ever. “It’s a good name,” says Grace. “The Clutterbucks are a very old Border family—that’s why it was so sickening for poor Erica to be left so badly off when old Mr. Clutterbuck died. She had absolutely nothing except the house, and she didn’t want to sell it, of course.”
I nod gravely and assure Grace that I understand and sympathize with Miss Clutterbuck’s predicament and add that I hope she will be able to manage the twins.
“Oh, goodness!” exclaims Grace impatiently. “I’ve told you already it has nothing to do with the twins, and anyhow I wouldn’t have Erica as a nurse for the poor lambs if she were the only woman left alive. She’d probably knock their heads together in the first five minutes.”
It is on the tip of my tongue to reply that quite a number of women might be tempted to commit this atrocity, but I manage to refrain.
“Well, anyhow,” says Grace proudly, “the long and the short of it is I’ve found you a job.”
“A job!”
“Yes, Hester, a job. You said you wanted a job, didn’t you? And of course I understood exactly how you felt. I mean if it weren’t for the twins, who take up all my time, and more, I should take a job myself. Now that Jack is away in Egypt life is simply too dreary—or would be, if it weren’t for the twins. They keep me cheerful, of course. Hester, d’you know what Ian said this morning? It was too sweet . . .”
Grace chatters on, but I am much too preoccupied with my own thoughts to listen. Now that I think about it I have a faint recollection that in a depression of spirits following upon Tim’s departure I did say I must get a job—and probably meant it. Since then, however, I seem to have recovered and the idea of a job is most unattractive.
“It’s very unselfish of me,” continues Grace. “You’re really my only friend—the only woman in the place with a sense of humour—and I’m sure I don’t know what on earth I shall do without you to hold my hand when the twins get colds or measles or tummy-aches. It will be just too frightful,” says Grace earnestly. “But I feel I’m doing the Right Thing. You want a job, so I’ve found one for you and you’ll be much happier with lots to do; the time will pass like lightning; and Erica seems only too pleased to have you, so I’ve done two people a Good Turn,” says Grace with the air of a complacent Boy Scout.
Grace is so charmed with her project that I haven’t the moral courage to tell her I have changed my mind and don’t want a job, but only want to remain peacefully in Donford until such time as Tim returns from Egypt. Instead I enquire faintly what sort of job is being offered me.
“A lovely job,” declares Grace. “I’d take it myself like a shot if it weren’t for the twins. A terribly interesting job. Erica has turned her house into a country hotel and she wants you—”
“But I couldn’t possibly!”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know anything about hotels.”
“You’ll soon learn . . .”
“I don’t want to. . . . I couldn’t!”
“Don’t be silly,” says Grace firmly. “It’s just like house-keeping on a larger scale—besides, Erica does everything. Erica is tremendously capable.”
“Then why does she want me?”
“To help her of course. She can’t be in fifteen places at once.”
“Grace—”
“No, listen,” says Grace. “Just listen to me. What are you going to do with yourself when Betty goes to boarding school? You aren’t going to stay on here at Donford with nothing to do except look after the house.”
“There’s quite a lot to do—”
“Nonsense,” says Grace briskly. “Be sensible, Hester.”
“—and the children will be here in the holidays.”
“They’ll be there,” says Grace. “I told Erica all about Bryan and Betty. She says they can go to Tocher House for the holidays.”
“What is it called?” I enquire.
“Tocher House,” says Grace. “It’s very old indeed. It was built by a man called Sir Alexander Johnstone as a dowry for his daughter. She married a Clutterbuck, you see, and it’s been in the Clutterbuck family ever since. Isn’t it interesting?”
“Very interesting,” I agree in tepid tones.
“You’ll love it,” declares Grace. “Bryan and Betty will have a lovely time there in the holidays. They’ll fish in the Rydd and climb the hills and—”
“They won’t because I’m not going there.”
“Hester, please listen—”
“I’m not going to Tocher House.”
We argue heatedly. I learn that Miss Clutterbuck’s mansion is about five miles from a small town called Ryddelton in the Scottish Borders. Grace stayed there several times when old Mr. Clutterbuck was alive and has exceedingly pleasant memories of its amenities and of its glorious situation amongst purple-heathered hills.
“Poor Erica!” says Grace with a sigh. “She’s a funny old stick—must be fifty if she’s a day—and very fat and ugly. Of course she hates everybody; that’s natural, isn’t it?”
“Natural to hate everybody!” I exclaim.
“The guests or clients or whatever you call them,” says Grace impatiently. “It’s only natural she should hate to see them throwing their weight about in her house. That’s one of the reasons she wants you, of course. You’ll be a sort of buffer between her and them.”
The mere idea of being a buffer between Miss Clutterbuck and her guests is so alarming that I pull myself together and tell Grace firmly that nothing she can say or do will persuade me to take the job.
Grace leaves immediately saying she does not understand me at all.
WEDNESDAY, 13TH FEBRUARY
Betty and I have breakfast together as usual and—as usual—Betty is full of high spirits. As I look at her, eating her porridge, I begin to realize how much I shall miss her “bright morning face” when she goes to boarding school. She announces with relish that this is the thirteenth. What do I think will happen? Reply that I am not affected by that particular superstition. Betty says Annie once lost her brooch on the thirteenth. It was a lovely brooch, given her by Bollings before they were married, so it was frightfully unlucky, but that was a Friday, which is worse. Fortunately she does not wait for my reaction but goes on to remark in her haphazard way that she’s sick of school and Miss Clarke is an awful ass.
Feel that this is the wrong attitude for a child of twelve and endeavour to rectify it.
Betty says with brutal candour, “She’s getting old, of course.”
This seems the right moment to mention boarding school, so I take a long breath and mention it.
Betty considers the matter. “I wouldn’t mind,” she declares. “It might be rather fun. I suppose I couldn’t possibly go to Dinwell Hall? Jane Carter has gone there and she likes it awfully. It’s near Edin
burgh, you know.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
“But what about you?” says Betty, looking at me doubtfully. “It would be frightfully dull for you without me, wouldn’t it?”
“Frightfully dull,” I agreed. “But that can’t be helped. I shall see you in the holidays.”
We discuss the matter thoroughly—in fact we discuss it so thoroughly that Betty is late in starting for school.
When she has gone I ring up Mamie Carter (the mother of Betty’s friend) and make searching enquiries about Dinwell Hall. Mamie says it is ideal and urges me to send Betty there; she gives me the name of the headmistress and tells me to write at once. Feel that things are moving much too fast and go upstairs, in a dejected mood, to make the beds.
Am still in the throes of bed making when Annie brings up the letters.
“None from the Colonel, today,” says Annie in commiserating tones. “But there’s no need to worry. I got one from Bill and he says the Colonel’s in fine form. Bill says they went and saw the spinks; it’s a sort of War Memorial.”
Bill Bolling is Annie’s husband and also Tim’s batman. They have both been with us for many years and are definitely part of the family. I am, therefore, much more interested in Annie’s letter than in my own two letters which Annie has placed upon the dressing table.
We discuss the various items of news contained in Annie’s letter and the possibility of wives being permitted to join their husbands in Egypt . . . which leads in turn to the problem of Betty’s future. Annie seems resigned to the idea of boarding school which surprises me a good deal.
“She’d like it,” Annie says. “That Miss Clarke was all very well when she was little. Betty’s getting too old for Miss Clarke, that’s what’s the matter . . .”
It is all quite true, of course.
My letters are both addressed in unknown handwriting and, looking at them, I wonder idly why two complete strangers have found it necessary to write to me on the same day. Annie is interested too. She points out that one of them bears a London postmark and advises me to open it first.
Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Page 1
