Mrs. Tim Gets a Job

by D. E. Stevenson

  But lo and behold the Stannards have killed a salmon—quite a nice one, too—and if there is any doubt in my mind as to the perpetrator of the deed it is immediately dispelled by the sight of Mr. Stannard himself, lurking in the shadows of the hall and craving his due meed of praise and approbation.

  He shall have praise in full measure, not only because he thoroughly deserves praise, but also because I feel eager to reward him: the salmon is pleasant to look at and will make a most welcome addition to the menu of Tocher House. “Yours?” I ask, smiling encouragingly.

  “My son caught it,” says Mr. Stannard, coming forward with a beaming face. “It’s a nice fish, isn’t it, Mrs. Christie? You know about salmon, I expect.”

  “It’s a very nice fish, Mr. Stannard.”

  “Six pounds,” says Mr. Stannard. “At least nearly. Not very big as salmon go but it gave Tom a good bit of sport. Three-quarters of an hour it was, before I got the gaff into it.”

  “Excellent!” I exclaim.

  “It was the Priest’s Pool—that’s what they call it . . . Tom hooked it there about ’alf-past two, and away it went. I never was so excited in all my life as when I heard Tom’s reel running out—never. You know, Mrs. Christie, it’s what I’ve been ’oping for—you might almost say praying for. I said to Mother only yesterday, I said, if I could just gaff a fish for Tom that’s all I want, I said. I daresay you think that’s a bit silly.”

  “I’ve got a son, Mr. Stannard.”

  “Oh!” he says doubtfully. “You’ve got—oh yes, you mean you can understand; but it’s more than that, really. You see Tom is all we’ve got—now.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, his brother was killed, you see. They were twins, you see. Well, it was a funny thing but there was something between them . . . something more than . . . just being brothers. We couldn’t understand it, really, Mother and I. It was—it was—”

  “Affinity,” I suggest.

  “Well, perhaps,” agrees Mr. Stannard doubtfully. “Perhaps it was infinity. Mother and I used to say they knew what each other was thinking—it was like that. Well, you see, when Dick was killed it went pretty badly with Tom. It was as if something went out of Tom. He didn’t say much, but he stopped caring about things—didn’t care about anything anymore, didn’t care what ’appened. I said to Mother it was just as if we’d lost more than Dick, as if we’d lost ’alf of Tom, too. Silly of course but that’s ’ow I felt about it, Mrs. Christie.”

  The little man pauses and looks at me to see how I am taking it, and I am taking it so hard that I find some difficulty in saying I am sorry, very sorry indeed.

  “Yes, I can see you are,” he says nodding. “Well, that was ’ow it was when Tom got demobbed, and the thing was what was Tom to do. So I said to Mother we’ll go to Scotland and fish—that’s what we’ll do. And that’s what we did.”

  “I hope it’s being a success.”

  “Not at first it wasn’t—and I don’t mind telling you I was beginning to think we’d made a mistake coming ’ere. I began to think Mother was right and we ought to have gone somewhere a bit more lively. We fished and fished; but most of the time Tom didn’t seem to be there at all—it was almost frightening, really—but today when ’e got into that fish Tom was different: all excitement, and rushing up and down the bank, and thinking ’e’d lost it, and finding ’e ’adn’t! I tell you it was ‘a crowded hour’,” says Mr. Stannard nodding. “‘A crowded hour of glorious life’ and I do believe ’e forgot about Dick just while it lasted. Yes, I do believe ’e wasn’t thinking about Dick at all. I was staggering about in the pool with the gaff and suddenly I heard Tom laughing—laughing at me, ’e was,” declares Mr. Stannard delightedly. “Laughing quite hearty. Mother couldn’t believe it when I told ’er; but it was true.”

  “He’ll come right in time, Mr. Stannard.”

  “That’s what I say to mother. Give him time, I say. Don’t fuss him. Don’t notice anything.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Yes,” says Mr. Stannard, nodding. “Yes, that’s right. That’s the way to do—and perhaps someday there’ll be a girl—a nice, pretty little girl—that would be best of all. I did ’ope there might be one or two here, to tell the truth, Mrs. Christie.”

  He’s absolutely right of course and I tell him so (whilst hurriedly reviewing the damsels at present residing at Tocher, and deciding regretfully that there is none sufficiently alluring to take Captain Stannard’s mind off his troubles).

  “Oh well, it can’t be helped,” says Mr. Stannard with a sigh. “She’ll come along one of these days when we’re least expecting ’er—that’s what I say to Mother—and meantime if ’e can catch a few more fish—”

  “Oh, I do hope he will!” I exclaim.

  People are now beginning to drift down the stairs and assemble for dinner so our conversation is at an end. Mr. Stannard and the fish are suddenly the centre of an admiring circle. Mrs. Potting is enquiring with interest as to the habits of “Scotch salmon”; Mrs. Ovens is exclaiming rapturously over its size and colour.

  “My son caught it,” Mr. Stannard is saying. “Gave him a good bit of sport before I got the gaff into it . . . yes, my son caught it this afternoon . . . yes, ’is first salmon, gave ’im a good bit of sport . . .”

  “What a fuss to make!” says Erica as we sit down at the table together and unfold our napkins. “Silly, common little roan! You’d think nobody had ever killed a salmon before!”

  “No, Erica!” I cry, almost in tears. “No, you mustn’t—honestly—he isn’t common or—or silly—he’s—he’s—”

  “Great Scott, what on earth has happened to you!” exclaims Erica, looking at me in blank amazement.

  THURSDAY, 28TH MARCH

  Having been told (or perhaps commanded is the mot juste) to take the afternoon off and to stay out till dinner time, I decide to climb Puss-hill and see what the hares are up to. There is a small car standing in the drive, just outside the front door, and a tall man in a very new brown tweed suit with his head under the bonnet. He is not one of our guests, I can tell that at once even though his back view is all that is visible, but he must be the guest of a guest and as such demands my sympathy and perhaps my cooperation.

  “Can I help you?” I enquire advancing towards him.

  He looks up and exclaims, “Mrs. Tim! What on earth are you doing here!”

  I look at him, and it is a moment or two before I can “place” the man. I know his face, of course, but where have I seen him?

  “Elden,” he says, holding out his hand.

  “Of course—Major Elden—you look different—I mean not being in uniform.”

  He smiles and says he feels different too, feels just a little lost, to be perfectly frank about it, “And I’m just plain Mr. Elden, now. I decided to drop the major when I doffed his crowns—not being a regular, you see.”

  I see.

  “And you approve?”

  “I’m not going to answer that one.”

  Mr. Elden smiles and says, “Of course you approve. You know perfectly well it’s the sensible thing—but never mind that, tell me what you’re doing. Are you staying in the hotel?”

  I tell him I am helping to run the hotel and ask him jokingly if he wants a room.

  “Well—no,” he says. “I’m—well—I’m staying in Ryddelton for a bit and I just came over to see a friend. The fact is—I say are you frightfully busy, Mrs. Tim?”

  He looks so forlorn that I am obliged to take pity on him and invite him to come for a walk and after some discussion we set forth together, taking the path through the wood. We have not gone very far before I begin to regret my impulsive invitation, for my companion seems depressed and withdrawn; there is a sort of barrier between us and we can neither speak to each other naturally nor remain silent in comfort. Before, when we were immured together in the railway carriage and we did not know each other at all, we had plenty to say and it was easy to talk, easy to get to grips and
to discuss things that mattered; now a queer awkwardness has arisen and we are both embarrassed. I have a feeling he wants to tell me about his private affairs but does not know how to begin, and although I am quite ready to listen to him it is difficult for me to open the subject.

  At last he says, “You were wrong, weren’t you? I mean we have met again.”

  “I’ve forgotten everything,” I assure him.

  “But I don’t think I want you to have forgotten!”

  “Then I remember everything, of course. What about Margaret?”

  He smiles, but rather sadly. “It’s no good,” he says. “I’ve been given my marching orders—I feel rather shattered, really. I still can’t understand. I still feel—it’s quite unreasonable of me, I suppose—I still feel that Margaret is fond of me.”

  We have reached the gate and he goes forward to open it. The gates are all in a very bad condition, they lean drunkenly against their posts and are secured by pieces of rusty wire which require a good deal of manipulation. I can see his hands are shaking as he twists the wire.

  “I am sorry!” I exclaim. “Are you quite sure she has made up her mind? Have you seen her? What did she say?”

  These questions break the ice. He explains that he has seen her today and she was adamant. It is all over. He is not to see her again, not even to write.

  “You saw her today?” I enquire.

  “I came here on purpose to see her. I had written several times and she never answered, so I felt it was the only thing to do. I had to see her.”

  “You mean she’s actually here?”

  “That’s why I came,” he repeats. “She’s staying here at Tocher House, so I came over this afternoon and—”

  “Miss McQueen!” I exclaim· in amazement.

  “Yes,” he says. “Margaret McQueen. You’ve spoken to her, perhaps?”

  We have now fastened the gate securely so we walk on, taking a path to the left which skirts the edge of the wood (somehow or other I don’t feel strong enough to tackle the steep slope of Puss-hill) and we walk along in silence because I don’t know what to say, and because I am busy fitting the pieces together and forming the picture. The pieces fit so well that I am amazed I did not realize the two stories were really one—amazed and annoyed with myself. I could have thought over the problem quietly and decided what to say instead of being taken by surprise and rendered speechless. I must be careful, that is obvious. I have no right to betray a confidence, no right to meddle in this affair . . . but, on the other hand, dare I stand aside and let these two nice people drift apart for want of a friendly word?

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have come,” continues Mr. Elden after a long silence. “I suppose I should have waited, or at least warned her I was coming. I thought I had only to see her and everything would be all right—but it wasn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “We met in the lounge. It was a mistake, of course, I see that now. How could I speak to her properly with a whole lot of frightful people sitting round pretending to read newspapers, but really trying to listen to every word we said? It was impossible from the very beginning, the atmosphere was all wrong. I couldn’t say—all the things I wanted to say. I asked her to come out with me but she wouldn’t. It was no use, she said. She kept on saying it was no use. She kept on asking me to go away and not think about her anymore.”

  “She’s very tired, you know.”

  “I know,” he says wretchedly. “She looks ill—”

  “She may feel different when she’s had a rest.”

  “She says she won’t. She says she’s made up her mind. It’s absolutely definite—quite hopeless.”

  There seems little to say to that, so I change the subject and ask about his future plans, and he replies that he is staying in a hotel in Ryddelton and had intended to stay on and do some fishing, but perhaps he should just pack up and go. But where shall he go, that’s the question—it isn’t easy to find rooms nowadays.

  It seems dreadfully sad that he has been abroad all these years and, now that he has come home, there is nobody to welcome him, no relative to whom his homecoming is a joy, no house to throw open its doors and invite him to come in.

  “Don’t look so sad, Mrs. Tim,” says Mr. Elden, smiling rather forlornly. “I’ll get over it, all right. I can take it.”

  “I am sad. It’s so lonely for you.”

  “I’ve got Sheila,” he replies. “She’ll be coming for her holidays soon—that’s another reason why I must find rooms somewhere.”

  “Stay on in Ryddelton,” I tell him. “Yes, I think you should. You needn’t meet Margaret. I’ll keep an eye on her for you.”

  “But that would be splendid!” he exclaims. “That would be grand! If you could just keep an eye on her and see she’s all right. The thing I dread more than anything is losing sight of her—losing her altogether. If she were to leave here and go away . . .”

  I assure him that that shall not happen. If she leaves Tocher I shall keep in touch with her, but there is no talk of her going away at present.

  Mr. Elden is inordinately grateful for this small favour—could anyone do less—and says I am a real friend and he will never forget my kindness as long as he lives—and more to that effect. It is all quite ridiculous, of course, because I have done nothing for the man. I tell him not to be silly. I tell him, also, to think about Margaret as little as possible, to fish the Rydd and enjoy himself, to make friends with other people in Ryddelton and have a good time.

  Mr. Elden smiles quite cheerfully and says it’s excellent advice and he will take it.

  Our path has led us to the brink of a little burn which falls in a cascade of sparkling water over a shelf of rock.

  There are pussy willows here with soft pale-grey catkins, and another kind of willow which has pale-green fluffy catkins covered with yellow pollen, all glinting with diamond drops from the spray of the waterfall. I ask my companion if he has a knife and immediately he produces one and climbs up the rock to cut branches for me. The highest branches are much the prettiest, of course, and Mr. Elden performs alarming feats of daring to procure them and becomes even more cheerful in the process. (Reflect, as I watch him in some anxiety, that men are very like little boys and are easily amused and comforted.)

  We scramble down by the side of the burn and presently find ourselves amongst trees; there are oaks and chestnuts and beeches, all very gnarled and distorted by great age. The oaks especially are veterans of the forest with twisted trunks and stunted branches, some of them are hollow, others have lost most of their limbs, others again have fallen and lie rotting on the ground. Mr. Elden says the wood should be cleared, it is in a disgraceful condition, but he supposes it is a question of labour. I agree with him in principle of course, but the wood is very beautiful . . . It is sheltered here and these ancient trees are beginning to put forth tiny green buds, pale as jade and delicate as lace. Spring is always a miracle, but here it is more miraculous than usual; these old, old trees are still full of life, the sap has stirred within them, the sun has warmed and quickened them. Even the fallen trees are not all dead, some of them are budding.

  We walk on, looking about us, and suddenly I catch sight of a grey wall with ferns growing in the crevices.

  “Ruins!” I exclaim, pointing to it.

  “Ruins, undoubtedly,” agrees Mr. Elden. “Some sort of castle, perhaps. Shall we explore?”

  This needs no answer. Breathes there a man with soul so dead that he can refrain from exploring a ruined castle? We push through brambles and nettles and discover a high archway of stone and, stepping over the tumbled masonry with which it is partially blocked, find ourselves in a large oblong courtyard. There is no roof and on two sides the enormously thick walls have disintegrated into piles of rubble masked with trailing ivy, but the third and fourth walls are still standing and tower above us, windowless except for narrow, slanting slits. At one time this great hall—or courtyard—has been paved with flags but these have been c
racked with frost or raised from their bed by the roots of trees; grass grows in the crevices and wild willow herb (not yet in flower of course) and there are primroses in the sheltered corners. At one end of the ruin there is the remains of a tower, a thick square building with a narrow doorway through which can be seen a flight of stone steps.

  “Interesting,” says Mr. Elden looking about him. “Some border chief’s stronghold, I suppose. Enormously thick walls, aren’t they? Shall we climb the tower or clamber over the ruined wall and have a look at the view?”

  We decide to look at the view, and as there is a convenient gap in the wall we make for that and leaning upon the trunk of a fallen tree we gaze out over the sunlit landscape. We can now see that the castle is situated upon a high crag which juts out from the woods and has a magnificent prospect over the river, far below, and over fields and woodlands and meadows which slope upwards to the moors. Just below us, and part of the castle itself, there is a sheltered terrace carpeted with soft turf, where—Mr. Elden suggests—the chief and his lady wife used to take the air when their day’s activities were over. I agree that it must have been a delightful little promenade, it is a charming spot even now, but I can see no way of getting to it.

  “This place must have been practically impregnable,” says Mr. Elden thoughtfully. “Of course you could knock it to bits in half an hour with a gun or two placed on those hills, but these terrific walls would have stood a good deal of battering with cannon balls. As a matter of fact,” says Mr. Elden, looking round with interest, “as a matter of fact this place would be a pretty tricky target with that false crest. Not much good for twenty-five pounders but just the sort of job for the old five-five with delay fuse. If you wanted to tackle it with direct fire . . . yes, see that ragged sort of wood over there, Mrs. Tim?”