Mrs. Tim Gets a Job

by D. E. Stevenson

  The taxi zigzags across the street from left to right and back again and finally stops with a jerk opposite Pinkie’s door.

  “Sorry, miss,” says the man. “I thought you said left, and then I thought you said right.”

  “It was my fault entirely,” declares Pinkie, beaming at him. “I said left, which it was, and then I said that’s right. You see?”

  The man says, “Oh, that was the way of it!” and pockets his money with a satisfied air.

  Pinkie’s flat is at the top of the house, so we climb three flights of stairs and arrive in a breathless condition. It is a small flat but very comfortably furnished and it has a gorgeous view over the Forth to the Fife hills.

  “There,” says Pinkie proudly. “Isn’t it divine? Isn’t it the darlingest little flat you ever saw? I simply adore it—and so does Guthrie. This is your room, Hester—rather small, I’m afraid, but—”

  “Lovely!” I declare. “Terribly nice, couldn’t be nicer. I shall sleep like a top in this comfy bed.”

  Pinkie bustles round while I am taking off my things and in a few minutes we are sitting cosily by the fire, having tea.

  “Why are you annoyed with me?” I enquire, as I munch my scone.

  “Not just annoyed,” says Pinkie earnestly. “Guthrie and I are both in the most frightful rage, Hester. You knew quite well you could come here and stay as long as you liked. You knew we’d love to have you.”

  “But Pinkie—”

  “I stayed with you for years,” continues Pinkie. “I had the most heavenly time, one way and another, and of course I met Guthrie. If it hadn’t been for you I should never have met Guthrie at all. Everything nice that I’ve got is because of you—everything. And now,” says Pinkie, reproachfully, “now you’ve gone and fixed yourself up with a horrible job . . . Well, of course I’m angry.”

  “Pinkie, you see—”

  “I can’t imagine you doing a job, Hester. Honestly, I can’t. What sort of things will you have to do?”

  “I shall just do what I’m told.”

  “It sounds frightful,” says Pinkie.

  I explain the circumstances to Pinkie at great length and show how one thing led to another and all things put together practically forced me into accepting the post. I explain my feelings too: Tim is in Egypt and the children both at school and unless I have some definite work to keep me occupied I shall become dull and mouldy. My eloquence is such that I manage to convince Pinkie and her anger is somewhat appeased.

  “I wouldn’t mind quite so much if the woman wasn’t a friend of Mrs. MacDougall. Somehow or other I don’t like Mrs. MacDougall,” says Pinkie with a surprised sort of air. “I know you like her, Hester, so of course she must be nice, but . . .” she shakes her head sadly and leaves it at that.

  “Do you think she’s pretty?” I enquire with interest.

  “Very,” replies Pinkie without hesitation. “She’s more than pretty—in fact she’s just the type of person I admire, pale and dark and slender,” says Pinkie with a sigh. “Quite lovely, really. But all the same I don’t like her. It’s funny, isn’t it? Guthrie thinks—”

  “Pinkie, I do not want to hear what Guthrie thinks.”

  “Why?” enquires Pinkie in amazement.

  “How would you like it if I were to keep on telling you what Tim thinks about every single subject we discuss?”

  “Oh . . .” says Pinkie, doubtfully. “Yes, I suppose it would be rather boring.”

  “I’m very fond of Guthrie, but I don’t want to hear his opinions second-hand.”

  “No, of course not,” agrees Pinkie. “I’ll have to watch that. It might become a habit.”

  “It might,” I reply. “And women who get into the habit of reporting their husbands’ opinions are almost as bad as the ones who talk about their children—but not quite.”

  “Tell me about your children, darling,” says Pinkie, drawing her chair nearer the fire.

  FRIDAY, 1ST MARCH

  A large railway station is always an interesting study for a woman who is interested in her fellow creatures. People rush about madly, clutching baskets and suitcases. Their faces are drawn with anxiety, their eyes are wild. Small children buttoned into coats, too tight for them, are pulled hither and thither by one hand and endure these discomforts and humiliations with resigned expressions. Occasionally they burst into loud roars of grief or pain, but these occasions are the exception, not the rule.

  Pinkie accompanies me to the station. She finds a corner seat for me (we are very early) and piles my luggage in the rack.

  “There,” says Pinkie. “Now you’ll be all right, won’t you? The man says the train stops at Ryddelton so you won’t have to change . . . and don’t forget if you can’t stick it you must come straight back to me.”

  “Don’t wait, Pinkie.”

  “No, I won’t,” says Pinkie. She takes leave of me affectionately and away she goes, striding down the platform with the air of a young goddess.

  How sensible of Pinkie not to wait! Valedictory conversations are so trying and so fruitless, and the more one likes one’s “see-er-off”, the more agonizing they are. One comes to the end of everything one has to say, and still there are five minutes left . . . one searches feverishly for something and nothing can be found.

  But this disability is not universal. Some travellers think it their due to be seen off by their friends, and would feel insulted and neglected if the said friends did not remain by their sides until the train actually started upon its way. There is, for instance, a tall woman in a bright green hat who stakes out a claim at the other end of the compartment and having done so leans out of the window and discourses with two girls who have come to see her off, and it is obvious she is enjoying her role of departing traveller and glorying in her importance. A nice-looking woman, she is, clad in tweeds, and her hair beneath the brim of the green hat is well-waved and soignée. Unfortunately her voice is less pleasant than her appearance—it has a monotonous twang. This woman is a past master in the art of valedictory conversation, she chats brightly and keeps up such a constant flow that, malgré moi, I cannot but admire her. She sends long messages to Uncle Bob and Sylvia; she asserts that she has enjoyed her visit to Edinburgh immensely—especially the Zoo. She wishes there were a Zoo at Carlisle. Will it be dark when she reaches Carlisle, she wonders. She points out a very ordinary-looking woman leading a fox terrier up the platform and exclaims in amazement at the sight. There was a pug in the carriage with her, travelling in the same compartment as herself when she came to Edinburgh, and she embarks upon a long story about it, but breaks off at the sight of two sailors carrying kit bags and says they are too sweet. The girls do not help her much. They murmur yes and no. They glance at their watches surreptitiously; they fiddle with their handbags; they stand first on one leg and then on the other . . . but, these signs of strain have no effect upon Green Hat. She prattles on.

  This exhibition of social competence is so enthralling that I scarcely notice a tall man in a khaki overcoat who comes into the compartment from the corridor and takes the seat opposite me. Indeed it is not until the train begins to move and Green Hat, having waved enthusiastically, settles down into her corner with a satisfied smile, that I can take my eyes off her and give some attention to my other companion. He has now removed his overcoat and stowed it in the rack, and his crowns proclaim him a major, his buttons an artilleryman. His medal-ribbons show he has seen service in France and North Africa—quite an interesting little dossier in fact. For the rest he has a thin brown face with rather a high forehead, well-marked eyebrows and intelligent grey eyes.

  The train gathers speed. The suburbs of Edinburgh flash past and soon we are amongst green fields dotted with browsing cattle; there are bare brown trees, skeleton hedges and an occasional half-frozen pond. The tops of the distant hills are covered with snow and the sky is very blue. It is curious to think that, at this very moment while I am sitting with frozen toes and numb fingers, Tim is probably finding it
too warm . . . not really hot, of course, for Egypt is a pleasant place in March.

  I glance at the major again, and discover to my embarrassment that he is staring at me. Our glances meet . . . whereupon he leans forward and asks in a very deep voice if I would like him to close the window. This is an unoriginal gambit, but it does well enough and we continue to chat about the weather and the countryside. Green Hat is interested in our conversation and doubtless would like to take part, but the major gives her no opportunity to do so. Perhaps he heard her chatting to her friends and is aware that if once she starts there will be no stopping her.

  After a few minutes the major leans forward and says, “Do you know Tim Christie?”

  “Tim!” I exclaim, idiotically. “Of course I know Tim!”

  “Then you are Mrs. Tim! I was sure of it!” declares the major.

  At this I am even more surprised and demand how he can possibly have discovered my identity as I make a point of having no large labels attached to myself or my luggage.

  He replies in some confusion that he has seen my photograph.

  “My photograph!”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact I met Tim in France at the very beginning of the war; we were billeted in the same town. It was like this,” he says confidentially. “Oh, by the way my name is Roger Elden. I don’t suppose you’ve heard Tim mention my name because I didn’t know him well. . . . Tim managed to get hold of a case of whisky by some unlawful means, and, being hospitably inclined, he was always asking us round to his quarters. He had your photograph hanging on the wall and one day I asked him who it was.”

  “So he told you.”

  “Not exactly,” says Major Elden smiling. “He said it was his pin-up girl, but I heard all about you from one of the other fellows in the regiment.”

  Being only human I long to know who it was and what he said about me, but of course I can’t enquire . . . being only human I am pleased and flattered to hear that Major Elden has remembered me all these years and recognized me from my photograph . . . being fairly sensible I am somewhat astonished at the feat.

  “He got away all right,” says Major Elden after a short pause.

  I reply that he managed to get away after adventures that would put a shilling shocker to shame, and add that, since then, he has been all through the European Campaign and is now in Egypt.

  “We travel around, don’t we?” says Major Elden with a smile. “I suppose you’ll be going to Egypt one of these days, when things settle down a bit.”

  “Well, of course I should like to,” I reply. “But Tim seems to think it will be some time before wives are allowed. We shall have to wait and see.”

  He asks me about the children, and as he seems interested I tell him about them, but I refrain from telling him about my arrangement with Miss Clutterbuck as I have a feeling he is an old-fashioned type of man and would not approve.

  Green Hat, who has been listening with all her ears, breaks in to ask if the train stops at Carlisle, and as I am aware that Green Hat knows full well the train stops at Carlisle I feel slightly annoyed with her.

  Major Elden says, “I beg your pardon,” and, on Green Hat’s repetition of the idiotic question, replies, “Yes, all trains stop at Carlisle.”

  “I wondered if I would have to change at Carstairs,” says Green Hat plaintively.

  “No,” says Major Elden.

  “Sometimes you do,” asserts Green Hat. “I knew a lady who was going to Carlisle and found herself in Glasgow.”

  “This train goes through to London, stopping at Carlisle on the way,” says Major Elden firmly. He then turns his shoulder to Green Hat and we resume our conversation.

  It is now his turn to be informative. He tells me he is a lawyer in private life and is about to be demobilized. (“I am taking felt next week,” says Major Elden with a smile.) During the war his business has wilted away but this does not seem to worry him unduly. “It will be nice to be a free man,” says Major Elden. “Of course I shall want a job later, but not just at once. I have a little daughter; she’s at school of course, but we’re going to have a good time together in the holidays. Sheila is all I’ve got, you see. My wife died soon after she was born.”

  Green Hat has been very quiet for the last ten minutes and I now observe she has gone to sleep. She is less attractive in this condition, her hat has slipped to one side and her jaw has dropped. Major Elden says it isn’t often you see women asleep in trains. Men frequently seize the opportunity for forty winks, but not women. He has thought about this phenomenon a good deal and has come to the conclusion that vanity keeps them awake, what do I think about it. I have given the subject no consideration but feel inclined to disagree with him (in spite of Green Hat’s unlovely pose which is certainly an argument in favour of his theory) so I reply with suitable gravity that a woman’s subconscious mind forbids her to sleep unguarded; it is a primitive instinct, persisting from the Stone Age. Major Elden glances at Green Hat and says he sees what I mean, but he still thinks it is vanity—and nothing more.

  It is much easier to talk now that Green Hat is asleep and Major Elden becomes more confidential. He tells me about Sheila and about her school and about his difficulties in buying clothes for her and making arrangements for her holidays.

  “Haven’t you anyone to help you?” I enquire. “Haven’t you a sister or—”

  “Nobody,” replies Major Elden. He hesitates for a moment and then adds, “There’s a possibility I might marry again . . . if the lady will have me.”

  “She’d be silly not to!” I exclaim, and this is true, for Major Elden is the sort of man who would make an excellent husband.

  He laughs and replies, “You had to say that, of course!” There is a short silence. We both look out of the window. Then he leans forward and says, “I wonder if—I mean would it bore you frightfully if I told you about it and asked your advice? It sounds mad to talk like this to someone you’ve never seen before—”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

  “I think it would be easy.”

  “Go on,” I tell him encouragingly. “You’ve never seen me before and you’ll never see me again, so—”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that! Why shouldn’t we meet again, someday?”

  This question requires no answer, nor does he seem to expect one. He frowns for a few moments, marshalling his thoughts and then continues, “You mustn’t think it’s just because of Sheila I want to marry again. It would be nice for Sheila, of course, but . . . no, I must start at the beginning. You see when my wife died I thought I should never want to marry again. We had been blissfully happy. Eva was the most marvellous person. It could never be quite the same. Nobody could ever take Eva’s place—if you know what I mean—but I’m very fond of Margaret and I feel sure we could make a good thing of life together. We enjoy the same things, we understand each other . . . at least I thought we did.” He pauses and sighs.

  “Something has gone wrong,” I suggest.

  “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’m afraid so, but I must tell you more about her. I met her about four years ago when I was billeted near Chichester. She was a companion to an old lady, a disagreeable old dame who worked her like a slave. I used to drop in and chat to the old lady and then drag Margaret out for a walk. She likes walking and so do I; we had some good times, one way and another, and we—well, we came to an understanding. We couldn’t be openly engaged because the old lady would have been furious, she was that sort of person. Then I was bundled away to North Africa. We played about there for a bit and eventually took ship for Italy where we had more fun and games. . . . I got home about a month ago. The old lady is dead now, so I thought it would be plain sailing, but Margaret seems to have changed her mind. I can’t understand it, really, because we wrote to each other constantly; everything seemed all right until I got home. Now everything is all wrong. Of course if she really has changed her mind that’s that—I can take it—but somehow I’m not sure. What sh
ould I do?” enquires Major Elden, looking at me earnestly.

  “How can I tell you!” I exclaim. “If I knew your Margaret—but I don’t know anything about her. I don’t know what she’s like.”

  “I thought you might advise me whether to wait a bit and then try again,” explains Major Elden. “You see I know very little about women, that’s the trouble. People say that women often say no when they mean yes.”

  “People say a good many silly things!”

  “Then it isn’t true?” he enquires.

  “It depends on the person. Is Margaret like that?”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s a pretty definite sort of person.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “But she’s had a rotten time lately and she says she wants to be free. I wondered if she would go on wanting to be free—or is it a passing phase?”

  “Has she any money? Enough to live on, I mean.”

  “Oh yes,” he replies. “The old lady was comfortably off. She left everything to Margaret. Money doesn’t enter into it, one way or the other.”

  “I should wait for a little and give her another chance.”

  He smiles at me. “You really think so? I hate the idea of badgering her but I do feel we could be happy. I know she felt the same until just lately.”

  “Perhaps she thought you were taking it all too much for granted.”

  “I wonder—” he says, thoughtfully. “No, I don’t believe it’s that, somehow.”

  “You must give her another chance.”

  “You’re an advocate for marriage?”

  “Yes, definitely. A woman once said to me it was better to be unhappily married than not to be married at all. I wouldn’t go as far as that, but—”

  “I wouldn’t, either,” declares Major Elden, laughing. By this time we have left Carstairs behind and are in the midst of rounded hills, covered with yellowish green grass and brown heather. The train is labouring up a gradient; the engine is puffing and panting with the strain. We talk about other gradients in various parts of the world, in the Himalayas and in Italy; now we have reached the summit and are flying down the other side and we rock to and fro gathering speed in a most alarming manner. Major Elden seems unalarmed, he cleans the window, which has become a little steamy, and says that’s a most attractive-looking burn. He would like to have a day’s fishing amongst these hills; perhaps he will before he’s much older.