Mrs. Tim Gets a Job

by D. E. Stevenson

  “If you would stop prattling for a moment,” says Erica sourly—the insult to her weight is still rankling—“Stop prattling and look down there at the terrace.”

  I lean over the parapet and look down . . . and exclaim in horror at the sight of a man lying stretched out upon the ground.

  “He’s not dead,” Erica assures me. “He’s entranced, that’s all. Poppy dust has been scattered upon his eyelids. I witnessed the performance.”

  “It’s Mr. Elden!”

  “So I supposed,” says Erica calmly. “Only a fond parent would allow such liberties to be taken with his person. As a matter of fact your daughter was anxious to besprinkle my eyelids with her nauseous herbs—not really poppy dust, she informed me, because neither she nor her friend could find any poppies (hardly surprising in the month of April) but pollen from catkins which they had collected with great difficulty and destruction to their clothes. Betty’s knickers suffered severely . . .”

  “It’s the only decent pair she possesses!” I exclaim in horror.

  “In that case she possesses no decent pair,” says Erica with brutal candour.

  There is a short silence while I digest this information and try to decide whether it will be possible to clothe my child’s nether limbs in garments made from an old frock, no coupons being available.

  Erica rises, lights a cigarette and leans over the parapet beside me. “Odd creature, Betty,” says Erica in a ruminative voice. “Such a mixture of sense and inanity.”

  “We all are—if it comes to that.”

  “True, but it shows clearer in Betty. This picnic, for instance. She was most capable in her arrangements, and then all this mystery. There’s a sixth guest expected, do you know who it is?”

  “No, who is it?”

  “I wasn’t informed . . . merely drew my conclusions from the fact that there are six cups in the basket . . . I need my tea,” she adds, plaintively.

  “We should have had tea first and then played the game.”

  “My good Hester, I suggested that myself, but I was told the poppy dust must take effect before tea.”

  “What sort of effect, I wonder.”

  “It’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, you ignorant woman,” replies Erica with a grim smile. “Mr. Elden is Lysander, of course. Surely you remember the tale.”

  “He woke from his trance and saw Hermia and loved her madly, didn’t he?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Who is Hermia? You, I suppose.”

  Erica sighs. She says, “I wasn’t told but I have my suspicions.”

  “And you’re willing to co-operate?”

  “Oh, I’ll go and waken the man if that’s what they want,” says Erica in resigned tones. “Anything short of kissing him—they wouldn’t expect that, would they, Hester?”

  I am about to assure her that she must certainly kiss Mr. Elden or the whole thing will fall flat when a diversion is caused by the sound of voices from the main part of the ruins. Erica and I with one accord move over to the other side of the tower and, looking down in that direction, we see Betty appear through the archway leading Margaret McQueen by the hand and encouraging her to brave the nettles.

  “It isn’t much further—really,” Betty is saying. “And it’s such a lovely view. You’ll be surprised, I know you will.”

  “The sixth guest,” says Erica softly. “What a curious choice! She won’t add to the gaiety of the picnic, will she?” I cannot reply for the sight of Margaret has taken my breath away. What on earth will happen when she and Roger Elden meet and are expected to drink tea together in our company? Why didn’t Betty tell me she was going to ask Margaret to come? Does Sheila know the state of affairs, or doesn’t she?

  “This is a weird place!” exclaims Margaret, pausing and looking round. “What enormously thick walls! Where’s your mother? Is she waiting for us? Are we going to have tea here?”

  “Presently,” says Betty, dragging her on. “We’re going to play the game first. You said you would.”

  “Oh, of course,” agrees Margaret, following meekly.

  “You go down there,” says Betty pointing to the entrance of the passage.

  Margaret hesitates. “I don’t like dungeons,” she objects.

  “It isn’t a dungeon,” Betty assures her. “It’s a passage leading to a lovely terrace. I know it’s a bit dark and the walls are slimy but you won’t mind, will you? It will spoil everything if you don’t play up.”

  Thus adjured Margaret bends her head and enters.

  “Just go down and wait on the terrace,” says Betty to her receding back.

  Erica grasps my arm. “What’s happening?” she enquires in a whisper. “She doesn’t know he’s there? Oughtn’t we to do something, Hester?”

  This is exactly the question I have been asking myself—oughtn’t we to do something? But what can we do? It is obvious, now, that the whole affair is a deep-laid scheme evolved by Betty and Sheila and it is such an odd mixture of serpentine guile and childish nonsense that it fairly bewilders me. Will the plot succeed, that’s the question. Will the surprise of seeing one another unexpectedly bring them together or drive them further apart? But I can do nothing to avert the meeting, it is too late, now’. Events must take their course. All this flashes through my mind like lightning, and like lightning I decide that I don’t want to be a witness to the scene. Nobody must see what happens when Margaret emerges from the tunnel and beholds Roger Elden lying on the grass.

  I put my finger to my lips and motion to the steps. Erica obeys and we creep down silently, with our hands on the crumbling wall.

  “Now perhaps you’ll explain,” says Erica as we reach the bottom.

  “I can’t,” I reply. “It’s all too difficult.”

  “Nonsense—you must. Why was I made to scale those precarious steps and dragged down again before seeing what happened when Lysander awoke? It would have been interesting. Miss McQueen seems an extraordinary choice for the part of Hermia. Does she know the man? You can surely answer that.”

  “Yes, she knows him.”

  “Oh,” says Erica doubtfully. “Oh well, I suppose that’s why they chose her. You knew she was coming to the picnic.”

  “I didn’t know she was coming. They told me nothing. I’d have stopped it if I’d been told—at least I think I would.”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake let’s have tea,” says Erica and she moves towards the tunnel with a purposeful air.

  “Not there!” I exclaim, clutching her arm.

  “Tea,” says Erica firmly.

  “But not there, Erica.”

  Fortunately at this moment Sheila and Betty appear at the other end of the ruin and wave to us to come. They are carrying a large hamper between them and at the sight of this hamper Erica gives an exclamation of relief.

  “Tea!” repeats Erica, throwing off my hand and hastening towards them with all speed.

  We spread the cloth in a sheltered corner of the ruined hall and lay out the cakes. It is a marvellous tea of course, for Betty and Erica and Cook are all good doers and have seen to it that nobody shall starve. No conversation takes place while the food is being laid out except the requests concomitant with our task, requests to pass the scones, to put the chocolate cake out of the sun or to find the teaspoons.

  “Are we waiting for the others?” enquires Erica when all is prepared.

  The conspirators look at each other. “No,” says Betty. “Sheila thinks—I mean we’ll just start without them.”

  We start.

  I notice that Sheila has chosen to sit upon a stone beside me from whence she can see the entrance to the tunnel without turning her head. She is pale, now. Her excitement has faded and her eyes are strained. Betty and Erica are gorging themselves cheerfully and arguing about the nests in the overhanging trees. They are rooks’ nests, Betty thinks, but Erica is of the opinion they are only crows’.

  “D’you think it was wrong of us to do it, Mrs. Christie?” asks Sheila in a
low voice. “I thought it was a good idea, but now I’m a little frightened.”

  I am about to reply when Erica chips in. Erica is never deaf to anything she wants to hear. “Why are you frightened?” she enquires.

  Sheila twists her hands. “They used to—like each other,” she says.

  “Hrrmph!” snorts Erica.

  The curious thing is that everything is now perfectly clear; the situation which seemed to me far too difficult and complicated to explain is explained in six words.

  “It said in a book you should throw people together,” says Betty, taking up the story. “At first we thought we would make them go up the tower and then break the steps so that they couldn’t come down—at least I thought that would be a good plan, Sheila wasn’t very keen on it. So then we decided the terrace would be better and the only difficulty was how to make them go there.”

  “You overcame that,” says Erica in dry tones.

  “We had to,” says Betty earnestly. “We didn’t tell any lies at all—not one.”

  “We acted lies,” says Sheila. “I thought it was all right at the time . . . but now I see we shouldn’t have done it.”

  “We didn’t act lies!” cries Betty indignantly.

  “We pretended it was a game,” Sheila reminds her.

  “It was a game.”

  “Not to me,” says Sheila in tragic tones.

  They all look at me—even Erica—and I realize that I am expected to pronounce judgment. It is a task for which I am singularly unfitted by nature, for I look at things from everyone’s point of view and this muddles me. The people who can think and speak clearly are those whose ideas are cut and dried . . . but I shall have to try.

  “It was wrong,” I tell them gravely. “But you intended well, which is the main thing, and it looks to me as if your plan has succeeded.”

  “They’ve forgotten about tea,” nods Sheila, looking relieved.

  “But remember this,” I continue. “When we do wrong we have to pay for it, and you will have to pay for it by going on with your pretense that it was only a childish game.”

  This is beyond Betty, of course, but Sheila understands and looks at me seriously. “It will be horrid to have a secret from Father,” says Sheila with a sigh.

  We finish tea—even Betty can eat no more—and still there is no sign of Lysander and Hermia. We chat in a desultory way. Erica smokes like a chimney. Betty and Sheila play “I spy” in a halfhearted manner which deceives nobody, not even themselves.

  Presently Erica rises and shakes herself. “I’m going home,” she says. “If you take my advice, Hester, you’ll come home, too. It’s far too cold to dawdle about here, and I’ve finished my cigarettes.”

  “Oh, please, Miss Clutterbuck!” cries Sheila. “Please don’t leave us alone!”

  “Go and see what’s happened, then,” says Erica.

  “I couldn’t!” Sheila exclaims.

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  “Because . . .” says Sheila. “Oh, because they might not want me. I mean . . .”

  “You go, Miss Clutterbuck,” suggests Betty.

  “No, Mrs. Christie should go,” declares Sheila.

  Erica and I refuse with one voice.

  The matter is discussed earnestly and with some heat. None of us is willing to go down the tunnel and everybody thinks somebody else should go. Erica holds fast to her determination to return home and take me with her unless something is done at once to clear up the situation.

  “Let’s all go,” says Betty at last. “We all think each other should go, so if we all go we’re doing what everybody thinks best. You see what I mean, don’t you?”

  Erica says she sees exactly what Betty means, but disagrees profoundly. Betty and Sheila got themselves into the mess so they can get out of it themselves.

  “We didn’t think it would be like this,” Betty explains. “We thought they’d make it up and then come out and have tea—”

  “I didn’t,” says Sheila quickly. “I mean I didn’t think at all about what would happen afterwards. I just wanted them to make it up and be happy.”

  “I don’t care what you thought,” declares Erica impatiently. “All I want is to go home before I catch a chill. You can come or not as you like, it’s all one to me.”

  “They may be dead,” says Sheila piteously.

  This is ridiculous of course, but oddly enough it raises a feeling of apprehension in my bosom. It is as if a cold wind had started to blow. I realize that we cannot go home without finding out what has happened—glancing at Erica I see that she has realized this, too.

  “All right,” says Erica, after a short pause. “If we must go, we must. Lead on, Macduff!”

  We all go down the tunnel together. Together we emerge onto the terrace.

  Nobody is there.

  For a moment or two we stand there in silence, looking round. The sun has hidden itself behind a low cloud; the wind is chill; the cawing of the rooks seems unnaturally loud and ominous. I, for one, am absolutely petrified with horror and can neither move nor speak, but Erica is made of sterner stuff.

  Erica marches across to the edge of the terrace and looks down. “That’s the way they’ve gone,” says Erica, pointing. “It’s a bit steep of course, but not impossible. In fact there’s the remains of a sort of path . . . very sensible of them to go home. We’d better do the same.”

  The arrangement was that Todd was to take Sheila back to Ryddelton, and Todd, performing his duties with his usual punctuality, is waiting for her in the drive. Sheila says goodbye politely and is driven away. It is not until I see the car disappearing down the avenue that I realize I should have gone with her to afford her moral support.

  “We shouldn’t have let her go alone!” I exclaim.

  “Why not?” enquires Erica.

  “Something may have happened.”

  “For pity’s sake have a little sense! Their bodies were not lying at the bottom of the cliff so it’s reasonable to assume they got home safely,” says Erica impatiently.

  It is plain that Erica is cross and tired and fed up with the whole affair so I refrain from further comment—and Betty has the sense to keep her thoughts to herself—but when we go in to dinner my first glance is directed to the table where Margaret always sits and I note that she is not there. Betty has noted this, too. She looks at me questioningly, but the question is unanswerable. Dinner is an unusually silent meal.

  As soon as I can escape I run upstairs to Margaret’s room and find it empty. She is not there. What has happened, I wonder. Where has she gone? Perhaps it is foolish to feel so responsible for Margaret, who is old enough (so one would imagine) to look after herself and her own affairs without interference from me, but the whole thing lies upon me like a heavy weight. Betty was the author of the plan, and Betty is my responsibility . . .

  Very slowly I descend the stairs and sit down in the corner of the lounge. I provide myself with a book and pretend to read it, for I am too tired and anxious to talk to anybody. My thoughts go round and round. If everything is all right and they have “made it up” (as Sheila put it), the obvious thing would be for Margaret to dine with the Eldens. I decide that this has happened and heave a sigh of relief . . . but if everything is all wrong and Margaret and Roger have broken completely with each other the obvious thing would be . . . what? Margaret might return to Tocher House and go to bed, or she might wander miserably in the woods. She may be wandering in the woods, now, at this very moment. Perhaps I ought to go and look for her . . .

  This is ridiculous, of course. Where should I start looking for her?

  The evening drags on. One by one the guests sigh and stretch themselves and trail upstairs to bed. The clock strikes twelve; I am the only person in the lounge, and still Margaret has not come.

  At ten minutes past twelve I hear the sound of a car approaching, it roars up the avenue and stops with a crunch of brakes, a moment later the front door opens and there is the sound of footsteps in the hall.r />
  “There’s a light in the lounge,” says a deep voice, the voice of Roger Elden. “Everybody can’t have gone to bed—” He appears in the doorway and looks about him as he speaks.

  “Everybody has gone to bed except me,” I tell him, rising from my chair.

  “Mrs. Tim!” he cries advancing towards me eagerly. “Margaret, here’s Mrs. Tim, the very person we wanted to see!”

  Margaret lingers in the doorway. She looks so different that I should hardly know her for the same woman. Her eyes are shining, her cheeks are pink with excitement, her whole appearance is transformed.

  “Come on,” urges Roger. “Come and talk to Mrs. Tim. Come and tell her all about it.”

  “O Roger—I can’t. Not tonight . . .”

  “You needn’t tell me anything!” I cry. “I can see everything is all right.”

  “Everything is splendid,” declares Roger Elden smiling. “And it’s all because of you and that crazy child of yours.”

  “What about your crazy child?”

  “She was in it too, of course, but Betty invented the game—and what a game!”

  “Childish nonsense.”

  “Perhaps—I’m not so sure. I hope you weren’t worried about us.”

  “Worried is scarcely the word.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Roger. “I didn’t think—until afterwards. The fact is we just couldn’t face anybody after what happened on the terrace, so we crawled down the cliff. It wasn’t as difficult as it looked.”

  “We forgot—about everybody,” says Margaret with a dazed sort of air.

  “The whole thing was so—dynamic,” explains Roger. “So sudden and unexpected, so absolutely—dazzling. I heard somebody coming down the tunnel and I opened my eyes expecting to see Miss Clutterbuck, and—”

  “And you saw Margaret!” I exclaim.

  “Dimly,” says Roger, laughing. “I couldn’t see anything very clearly because my eyes were bunged up with yellow powder.”

  “You saw quite enough,” declares Margaret, smiling at him.

  Roger nods. “I took prompt and vigorous action.”

  Somehow or other these words seem familiar to me. I repeat them in questioning tones.