Mrs. Tim Gets a Job

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Yes—but what is it?” I ask with interest.

  “You give a bit of yourself and receive a bit of the other fellow, and you’re both richer.”

  We roar round a bend in the road in a manner calculated to make the hair stand on end, but fortunately I have every confidence in Tony’s skill as a driver so I remain perfectly calm.

  “That’s one reason why it’s worthwhile to be alive,” continues Tony. “It’s a sort of immortality we can all achieve.”

  “Immortality?”

  “Yes. We all want to achieve immortality. We all want to leave our mark upon the world. What use is it to have lived if we leave nothing behind us when we die. One way to achieve immortality is to have children, another is to write or paint—but not everybody can achieve offspring or works of art.”

  “I’m beginning to see.”

  “It’s easy,” declares Tony. “If we go about the world giving bits of ourselves to people we meet . . . it’s worthwhile having lived . . . we leave something behind us which goes on—and on.”

  He is silent after that. I reflect that if I have changed in the last six years Tony has changed too. Or perhaps not so much changed as developed and mellowed. He always had a solid foundation and even when he talked arrant nonsense there was wit and wisdom at the bottom of it.

  “Am I going too fast?” enquires Tony suddenly.

  “You can go as fast as you like,” I tell him. “I’m never frightened with you at the wheel. Do you remember the day we drove over to Gart-na-Drium? We went like the wind. What has become of Alec MacDonald?”

  “Gart-na-Drium!” exclaims Tony. “One doesn’t forget days like that. It was a day in Paradise. We ate ambrosia and drank nectar and bathed in the Western Sea.”

  “I undressed in a little cave with pink flowers growing in the crevices of the rock. The sand was as white as snow! The sea was clear and green—it was like green glass with bubbles in it! Oh, Tony we shall never have days like that again.”

  Tony takes one hand off the wheel and lays it on my knee. “Don’t talk like that, Hester,” he says gravely.

  “I feel like that sometimes. I can’t help it. You know that bit in The Trojan Women—‘Oh, happy long-ago, farewell, farewell!’”

  “No,” says Tony quickly. “I mean of course I know it, but you aren’t a Trojan Woman. You haven’t been seized by the enemies of your country and taken in captivity to a foreign land. You aren’t eating your heart out in exile. You have been spared that fate—spared it by a very narrow margin, perhaps; spared it by a miracle or a series of what look very like miracles to any thoughtful person. There was a time when your fate, and the fate of thousands of others like you, hung by a very frail thread. People forget,” says Tony earnestly. “People say, it was touch-and-go, but they don’t really think what it means.”

  Tony has made me feel ashamed. “I’m not unthankful,” I tell him. “I do realize what we have been spared—and our children. I just meant that those days of long ago were so carefree, so gay. They were golden days, Tony.”

  “There are good times coming,” he replies as he slows down again to turn in at the gates of Tocher House. “Perhaps not the same sort of good times because we ourselves are changed and sobered by six dreadful years of war, but peaceful happy days. Tim will come home from Egypt and you’ll settle down at Cobstead. Think about that.”

  “I do think about it, Tony—perhaps I think about it too much.”

  “How do you mean?” he asks as the car slides to a stand-still at the door.

  “The Taoist takes no thought for the morrow,” I remind him.

  “Oh!” exclaims Tony somewhat taken aback. “Oh—yes—but it can’t mean that, Hester. It can’t mean we aren’t to look forward to better times.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Too difficult,” declares Tony, turning his head to smile at me. “Much too difficult. You had better consult Mr. Weir.” It is not until I am in my room, tidying myself for lunch, that I remember Tony did not answer my question about Alec MacDonald . . . so Alec has gone, too.

  MONDAY, 8TH APRIL

  Awake suddenly with the conviction that something out of the ordinary is happening today and after a few moments of dazed bewilderment I remember I am going to Edinburgh. Yes, I am going to Edinburgh with Tony, staying the night with Pinkie Loudon and meeting Betty tomorrow. All this is delightful, of course, and I am full of excitement . . . but beneath the excitement there is a slight feeling of apprehension, due to the coming of Betty to Tocher House. However it is no use meeting trouble halfway, so I banish my doubts and decide to enjoy myself.

  Tony and I have breakfast early, in the empty dining room, and set off in the Bentley before the other inhabitants of the house have emerged from their rooms. The roads are clear at this hour, we skim through sleepy Ryddelton and over the hills. The valley of Tweed is green and peaceful, with the road winding along by the silver river and the hills scarred by peat hags and tenanted by black-faced sheep. It is a silver day. The sky is completely covered with shining white clouds, so thin and bright that one expects the sun to break through at any moment. Tony rejoices in the clouds, and says he prefers indirect lighting—it is certainly very restful to the eyes.

  We chat in a desultory manner. Tony says he will spend a couple of nights in Edinburgh before going south. He has got a job in the War Office and pretends to dislike the idea.

  “You like London,” I tell him. “You have hundreds of friends and you will be able to go and see your mother every weekend.”

  “I shall be chained to a desk,” he groans.

  “Brigadiers are never chained—and think how useful you’ll be to your friends!” I exclaim—very wickedly, I admit.

  “That’s all you care about,” retorts Tony. “You think I shall be able to wave a wand and bring Tim home. Let me tell you I shall do nothing of the sort—even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

  I abandon the subject hastily and enquire where Tony is staying in Edinburgh.

  “At the club, I suppose,” he replies. “Unless Pinkie could put me up.”

  “She couldn’t possibly. Pinkie has only two beds.”

  “How happy could I be in either!” says Tony sotto voce.

  I decide that I have not heard this remark, and am greatly aided in the matter by a large black-faced sheep which is sent by Providence to provide a diversion. The animal has been quietly grazing by the side of the road but suddenly, as we approach, it makes up its mind that the grass on the other side is more nourishing and tasty. It lumbers across in front of the car, necessitating the application of brakes.

  “Dear creature,” says Tony as we continue our way. “How I love dumb animals! And sheep are the dumbest of the brute creation—I could do without sheep.”

  “Without wool and mutton?” I enquire.

  “I prefer silk and beef,” says Tony firmly.

  I leave it at that. The day is too lovely for bickering. I feast my eyes on the rounded hills, on the swiftly flowing river which leaps and gurgles in its bed of grey stones and pebbles, on the little plantations of firs and pines, clumps of them every here and there, planted as shields from the winter gales.

  “I expect there were highwaymen on this moor,” I remark.

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” nods Tony. “It’s a deserted spot—but what made you think of highwaymen all of a sudden?”

  The curious thing is I was under the impression that my sudden remark was “out of the air,” but now that I examine myself in order to reply I discover the source from which it sprang. Today I am worth robbing, for not only have I a goodly wad of notes—my salary for five weeks which I intend to spend in Edinburgh—but also, reposing in the recesses of my handbag, a diamond ring, the property of Margaret McQueen, which she has commissioned me to sell for what I can get.

  “Well?” enquires Tony, who is waiting for an answer.

  I tell him I am the bearer of precious jewels to be sold for a friend.

  “For a friend?�
�� he asks. “I mean you’d tell me if—”

  “Yes, I would. I would, really, Tony,” I reply quickly; and this is true for Tony is the sort of person from whom one could borrow comfortably.

  “Let’s see the precious jewels,” he says, and pulling up at the side of the road he lights a cigarette.

  At this very moment the clouds part and the sun pours through the gap, and the country is flooded with gold.

  “How lovely!” I cry involuntarily.

  “Perfectly beautiful!” agrees my companion in fervent tones. “There’s a miraculous quality in light. I was in love with the silver day until I saw the gold.”

  For a few moments we admire the transformation in silence and then we remember why we stopped. I produce the tiny parcel and disclose the ring.

  “A pretty gew-gaw,” says Tony, taking it and moving it about so that the diamonds sparkle gaily with rainbow colours in the sunshine. “I’m rather partial to diamonds; nice glittery stones, aren’t they? These are good, you know.”

  “Are they?”

  “Yes—and I like the nice old-fashioned setting. It’s an engagement ring of course. Who wore it, I wonder.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, I’m not asking,” Tony assures me. “People who sell jewellery are always secretive—though why anyone should be ashamed of needing money I can’t imagine—and anyhow the girl who wore it as an engagement ring has been in her grave for years. It’s early Victorian, that’s obvious. They went in for solid value in those days. You ought to get quite a decent sum for this ring—the friend is hard-up, I suppose.”

  “Yes, she’s very hard-up.”

  “I wonder,” says Tony thoughtfully. “I wonder what it’s worth. Would you like me to come with you and help you to sell it, Hester?”

  “Please do!” I exclaim in heartfelt tones—for to tell the truth I have been dreading the transaction.

  “Right,” says Tony. “We’ll drive a good bargain. I happen to know of a fellow who deals in second-hand jewellery.”

  “It’s very good of you—”

  “I shall enjoy it,” says Tony smiling.

  This being settled we drive on and chat of other matters. I feel very tempted to tell Tony the whole story of Margaret McQueen and ask his advice as to whether or not I should meddle in her affairs or leave her to her own devices, but the secret is not mine to tell so my lips are sealed and my companion asks no questions.

  Presently we reach the suburbs of Edinburgh and are struck by their unloveliness. There are rows of ugly houses, untidy dumps and squalid factories. Edinburgh itself is beautiful, the old town on the ridge running up to the castle, which stands like a crown upon the old grey crag, and the new town with its fairy vista of Princes Street and its dignified Adam squares. Edinburgh is like a flawless gem in a trumpery setting—the people who are responsible for the setting should be ashamed. Tony tries to soothe me by pointing out that this has happened to nearly every town in Britain, they have all been allowed to sprawl over the surrounding country in the same formless way. It was a bad phase, says Tony, marked by a complete lack of taste in architecture. The population grew and the small landowners on the outskirts of the towns sold their land to the highest bidder and did not care what sort of buildings went up as long as they got their money.

  We park the Bentley (Tony says it is an unsuitable vehicle in which to drive up to the door of a dealer in second-hand) and set forth on foot to visit Mr. McBean. His place of business is not easily found, it is a small dark shop, somewhat uninviting, and filled with the oddest assortment of goods. There are pieces of furniture, shabby and broken; there is silver and plate, china and crystal trays of jewellery of all sorts heaped together in confusion. Mr. McBean is small and dark himself and despite his name there is nothing Scottish about him; he appears from the gloom at the back of the shop and asks what he can do for us.

  “Would a diamond ring be of any interest to you?” Tony enquires.

  His face changes. It is obvious that he thought we were buyers, his face for sellers is a different face, less genial and a good deal more sly. He replies cautiously that that depends . . . there are diamonds and diamonds.

  Tony takes out the ring and lays it on the counter.

  Mr. McBean seizes it with his very dirty fingers and examines it. “Thirty pounds,” he says. “I’d give you more if I could but business is bad and nobody wants these old-fashioned settings nowadays. I shall probably have this on my hands for months . . .”

  I am about to close with this offer at once but Tony gives me a little pinch so I shut my mouth tightly and remain silent.

  “You’re joking, Mr. McBean,” says Tony smiling.

  “Thirty-two,” says Mr. McBean.

  “No, no.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Listen,” says Tony firmly. “You’re wasting your time and mine. Unless you’re willing to make a reasonable offer—”

  “Forty.”

  “I said a reasonable offer.”

  “Forty is my limit.”

  Tony takes the ring and slips it into his pocket. “Come, Hester,” he says. “Mr. McBean doesn’t want the ring.”

  “Here, not so fast!” says Mr. McBean. “You tell me what you want for it, see? Then I’ll see if I can come near it.”

  “I want a hundred pounds,” says Tony frankly.

  At these words Mr. McBean almost faints—but not quite. “What!” he says. “You want—you want a hundred! You want something, don’t you? That’s just nonsense. I can’t afford to run my business on charity lines. I got to make a profit—see? How do I know if I can sell that ring? Might be months before I got a buyer—I got to take that risk. Let’s have another look at it.”

  Tony hands it over and Mr. McBean sticks a magnifying glass in his eye and looks at it much more carefully than before.

  “Well?” says Tony. “What’s the verdict this time?”

  “Look now,” says Mr. McBean, confidentially. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ve said forty and you’ve said a hundred. We’ll split the difference.”

  “Seventy,” says Tony thoughtfully.

  “That’s my last word,” declares Mr. McBean, putting down the ring. “That’s square, that is. That’s my last word and I wouldn’t go a pound higher for nobody.”

  Tony considers the matter. “I think I can get eighty for it,” he says.

  “You won’t,” retorts the little man. “You won’t get eighty—not in Scotland. I’ve made you a fair offer.”

  “I think you have—now?” replies Tony smiling. “All the same I believe I can do better.”

  Mr. McBean is displeased. “Do as you like,” he says crossly. “But if you take it away you needn’t come back and expect to find the offer open. I’ll give you seventy today but tomorrow it may be sixty.”

  “Thank you,” says Tony, taking the ring and slipping it into his pocket.

  “Remember what I said!” cries Mr. McBean in disgust.

  “I shan’t forget,” says Tony calmly.

  As we emerge from the shop I clutch Tony’s arm. “For goodness sake give me the ring!” I cry. “Margaret McQueen will be tickled to death with seventy pounds.”

  Tony roars with laughing and says the American language is exceedingly descriptive. He accuses me of having filched the expression from Mrs. Potting—which of course is perfectly true—but the odd thing is I have used it quite unconsciously in this moment of stress.

  “Never mind the expression,” I retort. “It expresses what I feel exactly—which is what an expression is meant to do. Please be sensible for a moment and give me the ring before the horrid little man changes his mind.”

  “You would have taken thirty pounds for it, Hester.”

  “I know—you’ve been frightfully clever—but I’m sure we ought to—”

  “Trust your Uncle Tony,” says Tony smiling. “As a matter of fact Uncle has taken rather a fancy to the ring, himself. He will give Miss McQueen eighty pounds for it.”r />
  “You!” I exclaim in amazement. “Oh, Tony, why? And how do you know it belongs to Miss McQueen?”

  “‘Margaret McQueen will be tickled to death,’” quotes Tony laughing immoderately.

  We have reached the car by this time but I hesitate before getting in. “Do you really want it?” I ask. “What do you want it for?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It isn’t a man’s ring.”

  “Good Heavens, no!”

  “Not—I mean you don’t want it as an engagement ring, Tony?”

  “Who—me?” cries Tony in mock amazement.

  “Why not?” I enquire putting on an innocent expression. “As a matter of fact I thought you and Mrs. Wilbur Potting were getting on rather well together.”

  “Well!” exclaims Tony.

  “She’s a dear. She’s pretty and witty—”

  “So she is,” he agrees. “Darthy Potter is a most attractive creature—so is Marley—they’re both darlings. It would be exceedingly difficult to choose between them. They have husbands already of course, but I don’t suppose that would matter. Six months as Darthy Potter’s husband would be delightful—and instructive. You advise that, Hester?”

  “Six months?”

  “Yes,” nods Tony. “Six months would be just about right. After that we should part the best of friends. You must admit it’s the civilized way to conduct marriage.”

  “Seriously, Tony?”

  “Seriously!” says Tony, looking thoughtful. “No, Hester, not seriously. Come now, you should know me better by this time. I’ve dodged women for nearly fifty years and my technique is perfect. Is it likely I should be caught now.”

  It isn’t likely, of course. Tony will never marry. He is buying the ring because he has taken a fancy to it, because he can easily afford to indulge his whim and last but not least because I told him the vendor needed the money badly.

  “Don’t look so sad, you little idiot,” says Tony laughing. “You know perfectly well I should be a most uncomfortable husband. I shall keep the ring for your diamond wedding. Where are we lunching?”