Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  Friday, 15th June

  The morning is fine and warm. I spend it lying in a deck chair upon the roof-garden writing to Tim. Although we parted only the day before yesterday it feels like months and I have all sorts of interesting and amusing things to tell him. The high spot of my letter is a detailed account of what happened last night, of Tony’s visit and my battle of words with the Signora. Tim will enjoy the joke thoroughly and I cannot help smiling when I think of him chuckling over my letter.

  The only other occupant of the roof-garden is a very pretty American girl; she has the friendly disposition of her nation and soon we are conversing in an agreeable manner. She has been in Rome for nearly a week and has been sightseeing earnestly. Fortunately she has a friend here and he has been taking her about in his automobile and showing her Rome. When she hears that I am going out this afternoon to see the sights of Rome she produces a list of all the interesting things that must be seen. I accept it with gratitude, but I have a feeling that it is a trifle too comprehensive. The American girl says you can see a lot in one afternoon; the secret of sightseeing is to work out a schedule and stick to it.

  Tony calls for me at two o’clock in a very large car with a very small Italian chauffeur. I tell him about the American girl and he says he is quite willing to show me Rome but it will take a couple of years.

  “At least two years,” says Tony thoughtfully. “Of course I’m on for it if you are; but I thought you were supposed to be resting here, like a homing pigeon, and continuing your flight tomorrow. That being so, I have no intention of trying to ‘show you Rome’ but intended to give you a glimpse of two mighty monuments; one, a pagan monument dedicated to the worship of pleasure and the other a Christian monument dedicated to the worship of God. To my mind these two monuments are symbolic of Rome which is at once a pagan and a Christian city.”

  When I ask if Tony made up this marvellous speech beforehand, he smiles and replies, “Some of it,” and hands me into the car.

  It is interesting to note that Tony is even more frightened than I am, as we career madly through the crowded streets, and is quite unable to take part in rational conversation. Every few moments he grips the handle of the door, or pushes down his foot as if he were braking. Every few moments he emits an anguished exclamation. Perhaps this is because he is a very good driver himself and, all his life, has driven large, fast cars with verve and spirit.

  Our first monument is the Colosseum, the great Flavian Amphitheatre where the Romans staged their circuses. From the outside it is imposing enough—an enormous oval building, partially ruined, with tiers of arched windows—but when we walk in at the arched gateway its size and grandeur are breath-taking. The enormous arena has no floor and one can see the stone passages beneath, and the dens where the lions were kept; all round are the terraces, tiers of arched galleries one above the other, massive walls of honey-coloured stone, towering so high that they cut the blue sky with their jagged outlines.

  We lean upon the wall and look across the arena and the eye travels up the tiers of terraced stone to the sky. It is very quiet here, the roar of distant traffic is the only sound.

  “Can you recreate the scene?” asks Tony. “This place could seat nearly ninety thousand spectators; imagine them crowding in, chattering like starlings, excited and happy, dressed in their best and carrying baskets of food. Imagine them filling the terraces until no stones are visible but only the bright colours of their clothes and their eager faces. Imagine the huge arena—the vast empty space covered with sand.”

  But to me this place is dead; I cannot imagine it as Tony paints it . . . and perhaps this is just as well for the arena was not always empty; it was here that the early Christians were pulled to pieces by lions, “butchered to make a Roman Holiday.” This ruin does not make me feel sad (like the ruins of a house which at one time, perhaps, was a home full of happy children); this ruin is a bad place, it is the ruin of a way of life which was wicked. Tony does not agree with this, however. He says the people who enjoyed the circuses were not wicked, for they knew no better; he adds that to his mind the modern man who calls himself a Christian but behaves in a manner unbefitting his creed is much more wicked than the circus-goer of Ancient Rome.

  We walk slowly round the lowest terrace and talk about the building of the place and the thousands of wild beasts which were slain at its dedication and about its subsequent history (which, as it can be found in any guide-book, need not be detailed here).

  “There was no roof, of course,” explains my companion. “There could be no roof to such a vast building as this. There were wooden awnings to shelter the spectators from the blazing sun—or the rain—but I don’t think anybody knows just how or where they were erected. It must have been some job fixing them into place.”

  Presently a party of tourists invades the solitude; they are led by a guide, talking volubly in broken English and quoting all sorts of statistics, which obviously he has learnt parrot-fashion from a guide-book. The tourists stream after him with dazed expressions and are so intent on listening, and trying to understand what he says, that they scarcely have time to look at the building they have come so far to see.

  “Ten minutes to do the Colosseum and then into the bus and on to the catacombs,” suggests Tony as they rush past. “They’ve got to stick to their schedule. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  St. Peter’s is our other monument. It is enormous too, but in no other way does the living cathedral resemble the dead amphitheatre. We approach across a vast square, so we can see the building in proper perspective and appreciate its architecture.

  St. Peter’s was built between 1506 and 1626 and differs from our cathedral of St. Paul’s in being the work not of one man but of many different architects. The dome was designed by Michelangelo. It was built “to enshrine the magnificence of Papal power, the Christian religion and the Latin race” which was indeed a high and mighty purpose. Beneath its tessellated pavement there are vast crypts, and here are buried the bones of early Christian martyrs, amongst them those of St. Peter (who was crucified in Rome in A.D.64) and possibly of St. Paul.

  Tony’s guide-book treats of the history of the cathedral at length and Tony himself knows a good deal about the excavations in the crypts, which are actually in progress at the present moment.

  We walk slowly across the square, bathed in hot golden sunshine, we mount the wide steps and enter the cool dim precincts of the cathedral. One’s first impression is that this is a church made for giants: the vast area of the paved floor seems all the larger because it is empty of pews or chairs; the height of the domed roof is stupendous. It is a church made for giants—and the giants of St. Peter’s are here, commemorated in stone. The statues of the popes, which line the walls, are much larger than life. Some of them are proud and cold, they are princes of the Church; others have a benignant air, they are fathers of their people; one or two have a crafty look, a positively Machiavellian expression, which is all the more alarming on account of their immense size. One cannot help wondering whether these statues are good likenesses of their originals or whether the sculptors tried to commemorate the characters of their models rather than the physical forms.

  All round the vast building there are little chapels in alcoves guarded by wrought-iron grilles. They are full of colour and light, like brilliant gems set in the cold stone walls. We walk about quietly, looking at them . . . our eyes are drawn upward to the jewelled windows.

  It is all very wonderful but to my mind some of our own cathedrals are much more beautiful—more dignified and holy. The memory of St. Peter’s which I shall take away with me and treasure in my heart is a human one. It is the sturdy figure of a peasant woman with a shawl of faded blue cloth over her dark hair, a shawl which is so large that it falls over her shoulders in soft blue folds. She is kneeling upon the floor before one of the little shrines. Her baby is clasped to her bosom and her arms are folded about him protectingly. As we watch she takes her baby and holds him up as i
f she were dedicating the little creature to God. She is there when we go in and, when we come out, she is still in the same place, kneeling upon the stone floor, rapt in her devotions.

  Saturday, 16th June

  Yesterday I managed to avoid Signora Scarlatti, and so evaded another embarrassing conversation with the lady, but this morning I am obliged to seek her out to say good-bye and to pay my bill. Fortunately for me her husband is present at the interview; he is a meek-looking man (small and insignificant with soft, brown eyes) and I find it difficult to believe in the devilish ferocity of his temper. We say good-bye in the various languages at our command and make all sorts of flowery speeches.

  In the middle of this scene Tony arrives to conduct me to the aerodrome and his arrival necessitates more speeches of an even more flowery nature. The Signora is prohibited by the presence of her husband from making any allusions to the relationship which she believes to exist between Tony and me, but she rolls her eyes and purses up her mouth and makes other expressive signs to show how well she understands, and how deeply she sympathises with my feelings.

  All this is most exhausting and it delays our departure so that the taxi-driver has to hurry to get to the airfield in time but fortunately my plane has not gone without me. I bid Tony a hasty farewell, climb into my silver monster and set out upon the last stage of my journey.

  This last stage is not as comfortable as the other stages; the monster which is to take me to Northolt is smaller and less stable than the monster that brought me to Rome and there are high mountains on our route. These obstacles create air currents and pockets and other disagreeable features of air travel and make the monster stagger and plunge and buck like a restive horse . . . but worse is to follow, for this is a French monster and the pilot conceives a sudden brilliant idea that his passengers would like to see Mont Blanc at close quarters.

  Mont Blanc is the highest mountain in Europe—as everybody knows—and doubtless it is interesting in other ways as well but I am too frightened to be interested. There are peaks and valleys and great glaciers and clefts full of snow which never melts; the wind, whirling about these peaks and whistling through these crevices, catches us and tosses us about like a dry leaf in an autumn gale. The mountain itself is a horrible sight and it is much too near, for it seems to me that the monster’s wing is almost touching the rocks. There are great jagged peaks with icicles dripping down them and great pockets of dirty-looking snow. Behind the mountain there is a sky full of ragged clouds, torn by the wind.

  I have no idea what the other passengers are thinking about their tour of Mont Blanc but I dislike it intensely and when the air hostess approaches and says excitedly, “Madame, regardez! Voilà Mont Blanc!” I glance out of the window and reply in broken accents, “Take it away!” She does not understand of course but I am afraid she realises that my comment is not one of enthusiastic admiration for her horrible mountain. Give me Mont Blanc in the distance. Let me stand firmly with both feet upon the solid ground and look at Mont Blanc with its snow-capped peaks outlined against the blue sky and I will admire it as much as you like. This is what I should like to say to the air hostess, but I am too busy saying my prayers to translate my feelings into French.

  Monday, 25th June

  The last week has been so hectic that my diary has been completely neglected, but the curious thing is that although I have done and seen so much I can find very little to say about it. I was met at Northolt by my brother, Richard, and his wife. Since then I have been staying with them in their house in London—32 Wintringham Square—where Richard and I were born. It is a Victorian period piece, built in the days when it was possible to have a large staff of servants; but Mary is a clever housewife and manages to run it with a curious assortment of “dailies,” who come in at odd hours, complete their appointed tasks and vanish into thin air.

  Our life has been extremely gay. We have shopped and lunched; we have attended cocktail parties and gone to various plays and every night I have crawled into bed more dead than alive with fatigue. It is obvious that people who live in London all their lives, like Richard and Mary, must be very strong indeed for a few weeks of this would undermine my constitution.

  It is the eternal “rush” that exhausts me. We rush out to do some necessary shopping; we rush back to entertain friends to lunch; we rush to tea at one place and to cocktails at another and then we rush home and change and rush out again to the theatre . . . and for all our appointments we are always a trifle late. As I am a punctual person by nature this worries me and it continues to worry me even when I realise that it does not matter being late because everybody else is late too.

  Mary says the reason is the traffic—it always takes longer to get there than you expect, so you can’t help being late for everything. (When I suggest we should start sooner she replies that, if we did so, we should be too early.)

  Richard’s idea is different. He says it has nothing to do with the traffic; it is because nobody wants to arrive first at a party; and, as everybody keeps on arriving later and later, one has to arrive later and later oneself. Soon, says Richard, people won’t start for a party until it’s over—if we know what he means.

  Mary replies that she knows exactly what he means but he’s wrong. Everybody says it’s the traffic so it must be. This retort is so unlike Mary, who has a particularly sweet and patient disposition, that I begin to suspect she, too, feels the stress and strain.

  I had intended to spend a fortnight in London but the stress and strain is too great to be borne and my thoughts turn longingly to The Small House at Old Quinings where I shall be able to live my own life at a slower tempo. It is a little difficult to escape from my kind relations but I explain that I want to see the house and get comfortably settled in before Bryan and Betty arrive . . . and, this being so, I think I shall go down to Old Quinings tomorrow.

  “Tomorrow!” exclaims Richard. “There’s a whole month before the children’s holidays! And anyhow it’s quite ridiculous going to that place at all. It’s absolutely crazy taking that house without ever having seen it. Why didn’t you ask me?” Richard wants to know. “I could have told you about Old Quinings; it’s a god-forsaken hole; there isn’t even a golf course. What are you going to do all the summer?”

  “Sit in the garden,” I reply.

  “Sit in the garden!” echoes Richard scornfully. “And what about the children? Are they going to sit in the garden? They’ll be bored stiff. Why on earth didn’t you take a flat in town?”

  “Can’t afford London.”

  “That’s nonsense! If you can’t afford a flat we can have you here. This house is far too big for Mary and me; we could give you the whole top floor to yourselves. What about it, Hester? Why not wash out Old Quinings and stay here with us? Bryan and Betty will be far happier here than buried in a mouldy little village.”

  “It’s frightfully kind of you, Richard, but—but it’s all arranged. And I don’t think summer in London would be a good plan.”

  “Go to Cobstead, then,” says Richard. “Tim’s uncle and aunt would have you there, wouldn’t they?”

  “Why don’t you leave Hester alone?” says Mary. “You’re worrying her. The children can come to us for ten days or so and have a gay time. You know quite well they can’t go to Cobstead; Mellow Lodge is let and Tim’s uncle and aunt are too old to be bothered with the children for the whole summer.”

  “Well, it seems funny to me,” declares Richard. “Hester has heaps of friends and relations who would like to see her; but off she goes to a dreary village where she won’t know a soul.”

  “It’s better to be settled somewhere,” I tell him; but still he continues to argue. Richard is the kindest creature on earth but he likes to have his own way.

  Tuesday, 26th June

  The argument continues (if it can be called an argument when one of the contestants talks the whole time and the other is practically silent). Richard is still trying to persuade me to change my mind when the taxi is at the
door; he comes with me to the station to see me off and argues on the platform.

  “You’ll come back,” declares Richard as the train moves off. “You won’t be able to bear that ghastly hole. There’ll be nothing to do and nobody to talk to, and all the chimneys will smoke . . .”

  I wave to him and throw a kiss and sink onto the seat with a sigh of relief.

  The only other occupant of the compartment is a tiny old lady in a large fur coat. The day is warm and sunny but the fur collar is pulled up to her ears and a fur hat is pulled down to her ears, and all that can be seen of her is a sallow little face with a crooked nose and two beady brown eyes which are fixed upon me with an unwinking stare.

  “Shut the window, please,” says the old lady in peremptory tones.

  I comply meekly with her request.

  “That’s right,” she says. “Now perhaps you will give me my cushion—it’s on the rack—and my paper. Thank you.”

  I give her the cushion and the paper; I help her to find her spectacles; at her behest I close the ventilator which is above the door. The compartment is now hermetically sealed and exceedingly stuffy but no sooner have I sat down than she asks for her waterproof, and wraps it round her knees. I reflect a trifle sadly that although she looks like an Eskimo she is not behaving in proper Eskimo fashion.

  “Where are you going?” she enquires. “Old Quinings? That man was right, you won’t like it. What are you going there for?”

  “Just to live there,” I reply feebly. “I mean you must live somewhere.”

  “You’ll find it very dull.”

  She is silent for a few moments and then continues, “There are no picture houses, no bus tours to Beauty Spots in the neighbourhood and nobody will ask you to cocktail parties.”