Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Non,” I reply shaking my head.

  “Vous êtes fatiguée?”

  “Oui,” I reply nodding violently.

  All is clearly understood. She goes away and I crawl into bed.

  I awake in plenty of time to unpack and prepare myself for supper, and supper seems desirable for I am now extremely hungry. There is a fixed basin in my room, a basin with two taps upon which are inscribed CALDO and FREDDO. These words mean nothing to me so I try them both to find out which is which; but this plan though reasonable in theory gets me no further for cold water flows from both taps in a reluctant trickle. As I wait for the basin to fill I reflect upon ancient Rome and her enormous aqueducts (the ruins of which impressed me so much this morning) and come to the conclusion that the Romans of today are not so enthusiastic about their water supply as their ancestors. Fortunately it is very warm, so washing in cold water is no hardship.

  I wash thoroughly and am partially dressed when there is a discreet knock on the door and a pretty girl in a black dress and white muslin apron looks in and says a long liquid rigmarole in an enquiring tone of voice. She is probably asking if I am nearly ready for supper. The girl smiles so sweetly and has such lovely dark eyes and such gleaming white teeth that I am enchanted with her and am filled with regret that I am unable to talk to her.

  All I can do is to smile and nod in a friendly manner and say, “Si, si!” This obviously pleases her enormously. “Si, si, signora!” she cries, and opening the door widely ushers in a guest.

  “Hullo, Hester!” exclaims the well-known voice of Tony Morley and he walks into my room.

  “Tony!” I exclaim, seizing my dressing-gown and enveloping myself in its folds. “Goodness! I was washing!”

  “So I see,” replies Tony calmly. He takes my hand in his and smiles down at me in his usual friendly way.

  “Where have you sprung from?” I cry. “What on earth are you doing in Rome? How did you know I was here?”

  He laughs and says, “The same old Hester, asking three questions at once! I’ll sit down and tell you all about it.”

  “But Tony, you can’t. I’m awfully glad to see you, but this is my bedroom.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about that.”

  “But, honestly—”

  “Now don’t fuss,” says Tony.

  It is easy for Tony to say, don’t fuss, but I want to finish dressing. I explain this to him and suggest that he should go and wait in the sala until I am ready.

  “But you said I could come in,” says Tony in surprised accents. “That exceedingly attractive young woman asked you if she should admit me and you said, ‘Si, si!’ I heard you with my own ears.”

  “I didn’t understand a word she said.”

  “In that case it was a little risky,” declares Tony gravely. “I mean she might have been asking you . . . anything.”

  “I wish you would go away.”

  “The hall—or sala if you prefer it—is cluttered with people. It would be most embarrassing for me to hang about outside your door.”

  “What will they all think!” I cry.

  “They’ll think the worst—and love you all the better. This is Rome, not Donford, my dear.”

  “And I suppose you think I should do as the Romans do!”

  “Within limits,” he replies in judicial tones. “For instance you should look to the right rather than to the left when crossing the street, but I should hate to see you spit on the pavement.”

  It is useless to argue with him so I am obliged to complete my toilet in his presence. He sits on my bed and watches with interest while I brush my hair and put on my frock . . . and, seeing that the frock has fasteners up the back, he rises without comment and fastens them for me.

  “There,” says Tony proudly. “Quite a neat job for an old bachelor. Just a dab of powder on your tip-tilted nose and you’re ready. We’ll go out and feed, shall we?”

  I suggest we should feed here, but my visitor says that is not a good idea; he saw flocks of vultures gathering in the sala and they looked frightful. “Sitting there waiting for their food! Drooling at the mouth!” says Tony with a shudder.

  This description of my fellow-guests is so alarming that I suggest we should wait until the vultures have gone to feed before leaving the shelter of my room.

  Tony says, “Why? They won’t eat you. It’s spaghetti they want.”

  “But they’ll see us come out of my room!”

  Tony sighs and says he is hungry, but it shall be just as I please. “Of course they saw me come in,” says Tony thoughtfully. “They heard me being welcomed with cries of delight; so, if it is your reputation you are worrying about, it would be almost better for them to see us both come out. I may be wrong . . .”

  He is not wrong. I seize a light wrap and make for the door, but Tony is there before me.

  “Wait,” he says, holding me back. “Not like that, Hester.”

  “Not like what?”

  “You look as if you had picked somebody’s pocket and were making off with the swag.” He laughs softly and adds, “Chin up! Shoulders back! Let there be a good entrance.”

  The door is opened widely and the entrance is as good as I can make it. I notice as I stroll across the sala that it is as Tony said, the long hall is full of people waiting for their meal. I notice also that they seem far too intent upon their own concerns and far too busy talking and gesticulating to one another to pay any attention to me.

  It is always pleasant to go out with Tony for he is the sort of person who manages the small details of living with a sure hand. Taxis are always to be had when he wants one; head-waiters conduct him to the best table and attend personally to his behests. Tonight is no exception to the rule and soon we are seated side by side upon a crimson plush sofa with a white-clothed table before us.

  The restaurant is garishly decorated with crimson curtains and large shining mirrors in heavy gilt frames, and these mirrors reflect the scene backwards and forwards to infinity. It is difficult to tell which are the real people and which are their reflections but the long room seems crowded and the noise of chatter and laughter almost drowns the band. I am feeling light-headed by this time—probably for want of food—and realising this I refuse a cocktail which under the circumstances might have a disastrous effect.

  My host looks at me and says, “How right you are! We’ll have fizz,” and goes into solemn conclave with the head-waiter about food and drink.

  It surprises me a little to discover that Tony is able to converse with this important functionary in fluent Italian and as I listen admiringly I reflect that, although I have known Tony for years, there is a great deal about him that I do not know and never shall.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Tim,” says Tony teasingly.

  “They aren’t worth a penny,” I reply. “You can have one of them for a half-penny; I was wondering how you learnt to speak Italian.”

  “From an enemy,” says Tony promptly.

  The answer has an air of finality but it has roused my curiosity and I wait for more.

  “It’s quite simple, really,” says Tony smiling. “You are aware—unless you have forgotten—that my particular war was waged against the Italians in the desert. It seemed to me that it would be useful to know what they were saying when they waved their hands about and jabbered like a flock of monkeys. This being so I caused a prisoner to be brought to my tent daily for twenty minutes. I could spare no more, but Italian isn’t a difficult language if you have a little Latin and my instructor was competent. He was a schoolmaster in private life and took a great interest in my progress; a progress which he assured me was phenomenal; but this commendation, gratifying though it was, gratified me less when I discovered that his former pupils were mentally defective children—”

  “Tony, it isn’t true!”

  “But it’s such a good story,” complains Tony, “and it’s very nearly true, and as a matter of fact I’ve told it so often that I’ve come to believe it myself
. Don’t spoil it, Hester.”

  I promise not to spoil it and he continues:

  “We were both sorry when the exigencies of war brought the lessons to an abrupt conclusion. We parted with expressions of mutual esteem . . . and I don’t mind telling you expressions of mutual esteem in Italian sound extremely fine: Signore, la ringrazio molto della sua gentilezza,” says Tony with unction. “É un piacere per me ed un onore di poter compiacere ad una persona illustre quale Lei è. That sounds better than, ‘Thanks a lot, it’s been nice seeing you.’”

  We laugh—and at this moment two plates, piled high with spaghetti, are placed before us, and a small dish of flaked cheese is placed between us.

  “Tonight you are going to eat as the Romans do,” says my host. “You sprinkle some cheese on the top. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Yes, but not as hungry as all that,” I reply, looking at my portion in dismay.

  “Do your best,” he says and taking up his fork twists it into the spaghetti and conveys it neatly to his mouth.

  I endeavour to do likewise but without success for it appears that the absorption of spaghetti is a fine art and requires practise. All round us there are people absorbing spaghetti with speed—in fact it seems to pour upwards from plate to mouth in an unbroken stream—but my spaghetti is unmanageable and slippery and refuses to disobey the law of gravity.

  I twist my fork in the stuff but before I can lift it to my mouth it falls off. I poke my fork into the stuff and the stuff slides away. Sometimes I manage to spear one piece and catch it before it slips.

  Tony watches anxiously. “Leave it,” he says at last. “Have something else instead.”

  “But it’s delicious!”

  “Then I shall have to feed you,” says Tony gravely. “It may cause a little surprise to our fellow-diners but I see nothing else for it. If you persist in eating spaghetti half an inch at a time we shall be here all night.”

  At this I begin to laugh and my case is worse than ever.

  “Twirl your fork,” says Tony. “Put your mouth nearer. Don’t be so elegant about it.”

  Thus adjured I abandon all idea of elegance and, bending over the plate, wallow my way through. After the spaghetti we have chicken in a casserole with French beans, and small green artichokes with the choke removed, cooked in butter and deliciously tender. We drink champagne of a noble vintage and finish with fruit and coffee. It is an excellent meal; I feel much the better for it, and say so to my host.

  “You look better,” he replies. “I must say I like to see a woman enjoying her food, especially when she’s my guest. It’s no fun at all to provide a good meal and see it unappreciated.”

  We have talked about all sorts of things during dinner; I have given Tony our family news and he has given me his.

  He has also told me about Annie and Fred Bollings and assured me that they are making good at the Bull and Bush. As Tony helped us to put them there he is interested in them and almost as pleased as I am that the experiment is a success. Tony expects to be at Charters Towers most of the summer and has promised to come over to Old Quinings and see us as often as he can.

  “I’m a farmer now,” he says a trifle ruefully. “I’m trying to be a good farmer but it isn’t really my metier. The one thing I can do really well is making men into soldiers, but they don’t want me for that; I’m too senior. They’ll dig me out again if there’s a war, which God forbid there ever should be.”

  I make various enquiries about Old Quinings, and Tony (serious for the nonce) gives me sensible answers. It is a quiet little place, an old-fashioned English village with a wide High Street and a few small shops. There is a butcher, a baker and a candlestick-maker, says Tony; I shall be able to buy hairpins, aspirin tablets and ankle socks, but if I want an exotic hat I shall have to take a bus to Wandlebury which is about ten miles distant. There is a church and a doctor and a country squire who lives in the Manor House, and of course—like all proper squires—has a pretty daughter.

  “I think you’ll like it,” says Tony, “and I’m sure you’ll like The Small House. It was lucky that Annie heard it was to let and was able to get it for you. Mrs. Stroude was a Trollope fan, hence The Small House!”

  All these details are interesting to me and I begin to build up a composite picture of my life at Old Quinings.

  “Have I told you all you want to know?” asks Tony.

  “Not nearly. You haven’t told me why you’re here in Rome.”

  “Oh—that!” says Tony smiling. “That’s quite simple. It so happened that I was in Old Quinings and went to the Bull and Bush for a stoup of ale and a gossip with the proprietors, and while I was there your name cropped up—not an unusual occurrence to tell you the truth. Our mutual friend, Mrs. Bollings, was somewhat disturbed at having received the news that you were spending two days in Rome, all by yourself. Rome, in her opinion, is a wicked city and no place for an unprotected female. Although I did not share her views in toto, I decided it would be fun to fly over and meet you—and so it is,” adds Tony cheerfully.

  “But, Tony, what nonsense! I mean you didn’t come all this way just to meet me!”

  “No, of course not,” he replies gravely. “There must have been some other reason. I just can’t think of one at the moment.”

  “I suppose you mean it’s a secret.”

  “That’s it,” he replies. “You’ve guessed it in one, but you won’t tell anybody, will you? I’ve been sent on a Special Mission to meet Mr. Stalin in the Colosseum at midnight.”

  When he is in this mood it is no use arguing with him.

  We walk back to the pensione through the crowded streets; the air is mild and balmy and although it is cloudy overhead the street-lamps are so bright that it does not seem dark. Huge shiny cars whirl past at speed and there are hundreds of small motor-bicycles dashing about in a reckless manner. My companion draws my hand through his arm and keeps it there firmly and when I remonstrate with him he points out that most of the other couples are walking arm-in-arm.

  “Do as the Romans do,” he reminds me. “Besides you might get lost, or run over, or trampled underfoot.” And, as none of these fates seems unlikely, I leave my hand where it is.

  All the shops are brilliantly illuminated and some of them are still open; the pavement is thronged with people talking and laughing gaily; indeed it seems to me that the city has been sleeping all day and has just awakened ready for social amusement. The cafes are doing a roaring trade, and the little tables which are placed outside and help to block the already crowded street, are filled with cheerful clients all talking at the top of their voices. Now and then we hear the sound of music—of the radio blaring or of a band in a dance hall—and once we stop outside a wrought-iron grille let into a wall and see a dark passage and, beyond it, a lighted garden with a little fountain. Somebody is singing here, either in the garden or in the house, somebody with a beautiful tenor is singing the well-known aria from Il Trovatore.

  My companion is more intuitive than Mrs. Alston and does not interrupt my thoughts with ill-timed conversation. We walk in silence—probably the only silent couple abroad in Rome—and presently we pass the Spanish Steps, a great broad staircase covered from top to bottom with a dazzling mass of flowers and, turning a corner find ourselves at the outside door of the pensione.

  “Good night,” says Tony. “I’ll come and fetch you tomorrow afternoon and show you some of the things you ought to see.”

  It is my intention to slip in quietly and make for the shelter of my room but this is not to be. The “vultures” have gone to bed, but one light still burns in the sala and beneath this light the Signora is seated engaged in the homely task of darning her stockings. Is she waiting for me, I wonder. Is she furious with me for my unconventional behaviour? Will she rage and storm and throw me out of her respectable establishment bag and baggage . . . and if so what on earth shall I do?

  At this moment she looks round and sees me. “Ah, Madame!” she cries and, springing to
her feet in joyous welcome, she enquires eagerly if I have enjoyed myself, if I have dined well, and why I have not brought my friend with me so that she could offer him some wine. “Qu’il est beau, votre ami!” she exclaims raising her eyes to heaven and clasping her hands. “Qu’il est gentil! Qu’il a l’air distingué!”

  These ecstasies embarrass me a good deal and I endeavour to explain in my halting French that “Monsieur le Général” is a family friend and we have known him for years, but the Signora merely says, “Oui oui, c’est entendu. Fiez en moi, Madame,” and continues to praise Tony’s beautiful figure and distinguished air and to assure me that I am fortunate indeed to have such a handsome admirer.

  Again I try to explain but before I have found the right words she waves away the explanation. “Soyez tranquille, Madame,” she says in soothing tone and then, approaching nearer and dropping her voice, she informs me that she, too, has “un ami” who adores her to distraction.

  I find this news far from tranquillising.

  The Signora continues the story of her love; it appears that her husband is jealous, that his temper is of the devil and it is only by subterfuge that she and her “ami” can meet.

  “Votre mari est en Afrique, n’est-ce pas?” she says, implying with a sidelong glance that she wishes her husband were in Africa too.

  I ignore this implication and tell her that she is mistaken in her surmise that my case and hers are alike but she cannot—or will not—understand. Love should be free, says the Signora. There should be no trammels to mar the joy and beauty of love.

  With the greatest difficulty I stem the torrent and explain that these may be her views but they do not apply to my case, because “Monsieur le Général” is only a friend. Unfortunately, however, the word “ami” has only one meaning to the Signora.

  “Oui, oui, c’est entendu! Il est votre ami!” she agrees.

  The more we converse the further we get from understanding one another’s point of view for our points of view are irreconcilable and neither of us can speak French fluently. Occasionally when at a loss the Signora becomes impatient and breaks into voluble Italian. As for me, I am completely swamped; it would be difficult enough to clear up the situation if I could use my own language! At last I give up the struggle in despair and escape to my room.