Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Why don’t you say it, Mum?” asks Bryan.

  “Say what?” says Perry in surprise.

  “She knows what I mean,” replies Bryan smiling wickedly. “I know what she’s thinking and she knows I know. It’s just one of those things. Sometimes it’s convenient and sometimes not. For instance it’s inconvenient at poker—you see that, don’t you? It cramps your style when one of your opponents knows exactly when you’re bluffing and when you’re onto a really good thing. And I remember once,” says Bryan in reminiscent tones. “I remember making a marvellous dam. I made it on strictly scientific lines and it was a tremendous success. It was convex, you know—all dams should be convex—and it turned a horrible little drain into a beautiful pool. I wish you had seen it, Hedgehog. Unfortunately the overflow found its way into the kitchen and the cook was cross.”

  “But I don’t see what that’s got to do with—”

  “You’ll see if you listen,” says Bryan cryptically. “The point of the story is coming. Mum knew I was the guilty party and we went out together to bust the dam. She was angry at first (and as a matter of fact I realise now that it must have been rather annoying); but when she saw the magnificent feat of engineering she was so struck by her son’s ingenuity that she couldn’t be angry any more.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong!” I exclaim.

  “No, darling, that’s where I’m right. You stopped being angry the moment you saw the dam. It was just pretence after that. And now,” says Bryan gravely. “Now at last we have reached the point. I knew you had stopped being angry and everything was all right.” He leans back in his chair and taking a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket he proceeds to light up.

  For a moment I am surprised—almost dismayed—for to me Bryan is still a child . . . and then I realise my foolishness.

  “You see, Hedgehog,” says my wicked son. “Here is another case in point. Mum doesn’t like to see me smoking. But then she suddenly remembers I’m grown up and decides to say nothing.”

  “But you don’t smoke,” says Perry in bewilderment.

  “No,” agrees Bryan. “I don’t like smoking. It’s a horrible taste and it spoils your wind. I just did it to tease my mother.” He stubs out the cigarette and smiles at me affectionately.

  All this chat has delayed their departure but at last I succeed in persuading them to go. They array themselves in the dirty mackintosh suits, put on the goggles and depart with a series of frightful explosions and in clouds of evil-smelling blue smoke.

  Annie and Bollings have come out to wave good-bye and, as the bicycle disappears down the road, Bollings sighs and says, “It’s funny. Seems only yesterday I was taking Bryan to feed the swans, and look at him now!”

  Friday, 29th June

  It is difficult to escape from Annie’s hospitable clutches but at last I manage it. I manage to convince her that I am not frightened of being alone, that I am not likely to have a heart attack and die without benefit of doctor and clergy and that The Small House can be rendered burglar-proof by the patent fasteners upon the windows.

  Annie goes home. I wave to her cheerfully from the door and repeat my promises to remember all her instructions and to “ring up the Bull” if anything goes wrong.

  Odd as it may seem I have never before spent a night alone in a house and I must admit to a slightly eerie feeling, but when I have locked up securely and am safely in bed the eerie feeling leaves me and is replaced by a feeling of peace.

  I lie and think about things; about Tim, so far away; about Bryan who has grown up in such a surprising fashion and yet is so young and boyish; about Betty with her sturdy independence, her straightness and honesty. How lucky I am in my family! I think about Annie and Fred Bollings and wonder why they have no child. Perhaps they do not want children—for children entail self-sacrifices—but I should be a poor thing without mine. I look back down the years of my life and see pictures; some of them are bright and clear, others dim and wraith-like . . . though even as I look at them the images take form and the colours brighten. Life has not always been easy and things are different from what we hoped. Years ago Tim decided to retire from the Army so that we could live quietly and peacefully at Mellow Lodge . . . but still Tim is in the Army and still there is no real peace and Mellow Lodge keeps receding into the far-off future.

  In spite of this, however, I have little to complain of, for if my life has not been altogether easy, it has been full and interesting. I should have been less than I am if I had not worked like a slave in Erica’s hotel or gone with Tim to Kenya. Perhaps if we had settled at Mellow Lodge I should have become smug and lazy with a double chin and Tim would have developed a bow-window.

  Tuesday, 3rd July

  After the rush of London it is very pleasant to relax and for the last few days I have done nothing but rest and eat and sleep. Mrs. Daulkes, the daily-help engaged for me by Annie, is a tall woman with a strongly developed figure which is encased in old-fashioned stays. Her skin is red and brown, healthy as an apple, and her pleasant smile shows strong white teeth; her hair is thick and brown and has a slightly rough appearance as if every separate hair had a life of its own and was full of spring. Mrs. Daulkes arrives punctually at nine o’clock every morning; she cleans the house and cooks my mid-day meal, and she leaves something ready for my supper.

  Anybody who earns the approbation of Annie is certain to be a good worker—Mrs. Daulkes is that. She is also a cheerful worker and enlivens the house with song. At first Mrs. Daulkes is a little shy, and unwilling to be communicative, but very soon she takes my measure and shows herself to be a true-blue Eskimo.

  “I’ll get your rations,” says Mrs. Daulkes. “Just you give me your book and I’ll see you get your fair share of what’s going. Eggs!” exclaims Mrs. Daulkes. “Oh we don’t need to worry about eggs. My father-in-law keeps a few ’ens (’e’s the ’ead gardener at Lord Ponsonby’s). I can get eggs from ’im any time. Sugar is the worst,” says Mrs. Daulkes with a sigh. “I can’t do nothing about sugar . . . but I tell you what: you write to your ’usband and tell ’im to send us some sugar. We’ll need extra sugar when the young lady and gentleman come ’ome. I’m a great ’and at puddings,” says Mrs. Daulkes smiling. “I didn’t ought to say it, p’raps, but puddings is my fort. You sit down and write straight off and I’ll send it air-mail on my way ’ome.”

  “Yes,” I agree meekly. “Yes, I will.” For the great thing with Eskimos is to take all the good advice they offer and act upon it promptly.

  Mrs. Daulkes goes away at two o’clock precisely by which time everything is in apple-pie order and all the dishes washed up. After that I am in full possession of The Small House.

  It is an unprecedented experience for me to do exactly as I please and to consider nobody’s comfort but my own. I should not like this freedom to continue indefinitely but for a short time it is extremely pleasant . . . day follows day, the sunshine pours in at the windows and fills the house with light. The garden, though not large, is delightfully secluded and I spend many happy hours lying in a cane-chair beneath one of the beech trees which shades the lawn. There is a vegetable garden, screened from view by a beech hedge and a long bed of herbaceous plants; but what I like best of all in the garden of my new demesne is a large round bed of pale lilac violas, so thick that the effect is of a pale lilac cushion resting upon the grass, so fragrant in the warm sunshine that the bees make a continuous hum amongst the blossoms.

  Everybody told me I should be lonely, but everybody was wrong . . . and wrong for the strange reason that I am not alone. There is a gentle Presence in The Small House, a Presence much less tenuous than a ghost and not in the least alarming. It is Mrs. Stroude—I feel certain that it is—she is glad to have me living in her house and makes me welcome.

  Wednesday, 4th July

  There is a lending library in Old Quinings; it is run by the village school-mistress and is open on Saturday mornings and Wednesday afternoons. I am directed thither by Mrs. Daulkes who a
ssures me that there are books for all tastes.

  “I’m partial to murders myself,” says Mrs. Daulkes confidentially. “Miss Carlyle often tries to persuade me to take something different for a change, but murders is what I like. There’s nothing as soothing as a really good murder—that’s what I say—but I daresay you’re a bit too ’ighbrow for murders, Mrs. Christie.”

  I assure her that I am not.

  “Oh well,” says Mrs. Daulkes. “P’raps she’ll let you ’ave what you want.”

  This remark puzzles me a little and I brood upon it as I walk down the hill to the school-house.

  There is nobody in the library when I arrive, but a moment later a door at the other end of the room opens to admit a neat little woman with fair hair and bright blue eyes. I am about to explain myself but this is unnecessary; Miss Carlyle greets me by name in a cordial manner and proceeds at once to business.

  “I expect you like biography,” she suggests. “Or perhaps a travel-book. It must be so interesting to read about places one has seen. What about Darkest Africa? It is very well-written and the photographs are really beautiful.”

  After this recommendation it is impossible to choose The Body in the Cupboard (the title has caught my eye and roused my curiosity) nor can I select a novel from the shelf marked ROMANCE. Some people could, of course. Some people could say quite firmly that they wanted something light, to read at solitary meals or to send them to sleep, but unfortunately I am not strong-minded. All I can do is to take Darkest Africa with a slight show of reluctance.

  Miss Carlyle notices the reluctance. “Don’t let me influence you,” she says smilingly. “I’m afraid I’m rather apt to influence people unduly in their choice of books.”

  “Well, perhaps, if I could have something a little—”

  “This is fascinating!” cries Miss Carlyle, taking down a large tome, bound in dark blue cloth. “Landscape Gardening! Of course it isn’t everybody’s meat but I know you would enjoy it. William Kent and Repton!” exclaims Miss Carlyle rapturously. “And of course Capability Brown! There are pictures and maps and sketches. Landscape Gardening revolutionised the English scene. It was an art, wasn’t it? And such an unselfish art, for of course the land-owners who planned and paid for all the alterations to their property could never hope to see the results. They did it for posterity—they made hillocks and dells and laid out parks with oaks and beeches.” She presses it into my hands and adds, “Be sure to tell me how you like it, won’t you?”

  “Yes of course,” I agree. From Miss Carlyle’s description the book sounds very interesting but its appearance and weight are against it. The book is not the sort of volume which could comfortably be read in bed.

  “How do you like The Small House?” asks Miss Carlyle.

  “I love it!”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” says Miss Carlyle with absolute sincerity. “I’m so glad you love it. You see I was very, very fond of Mrs. Stroude.”

  “And of course she loved it,” I add, nodding to show that I understand.

  “She built it herself,” explains Miss Carlyle. “She designed it. Every tiny detail was carefully thought out. To me the house always seemed part of her; it seemed to express her personality.” Miss Carlyle hesitates and then adds in a low voice: “Lorna Stroude was a wonderful person, the sort of person one could talk to about—about things that matter. It was a great shock to me when she died—so—so suddenly . . .”

  “Was she old?”

  “No, no! Not much older than I am—and nobody knew she had a weak heart. It was terribly—unexpected,” says Miss Carlyle with a little tremor in her voice.

  “There is a Miss Stroude, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” agrees Miss Carlyle in quite a different tone. “Yes, there is.”

  “Her daughter?”

  “Oh no! Lorna had no children. Miss Stroude is a step-daughter, that’s all. They were utterly and absolutely different. In fact it would be difficult to imagine two people more unlike.” She hesitates and then adds, “One hears a great deal about cruel step-mothers, but in this case it was the stepdaughter who was unkind. Yes, really unkind, and Lorna was so gentle that it made her unhappy.”

  “Did they live together?”

  “Off and on,” replies Miss Carlyle. “Miss Stroude has money of her own and preferred to live in London. She just made use of Lorna and came here when it suited her. She didn’t like The Small House—I’ve heard her say so time and again—and that’s why it seems so odd that Lorna should leave it to her. Lorna was so fond of it.” Miss Carlyle gives a little gasp and turning away seizes a volume at random from the shelves. “I wonder if you would like this,” she says in a trembling voice. “Oh no, I’m sure you wouldn’t . . .”

  But before she can return it to the shelf I have pounced upon it. “The Body in the Cupboard is the very thing,” I tell her. “Just to send me to sleep, you know.”

  “Oh, but really—”

  “Tell me more about Mrs. Stroude. I’m interested.”

  “Interested?”

  I hesitate for a moment and then take the plunge. “Yes, you see I have an odd sort of feeling that she likes me to be there. Probably you think I’m quite mad.”

  “Oh!” exclaims Miss Carlyle. “Oh no, I don’t think you’re mad . . .”

  At this point in the conversation the door opens to admit a girl and the conversation ends abruptly. In some ways I am glad of the interruption and in other ways I am sorry, but Miss Carlyle is unreservedly glad.

  “Susan!” cries Miss Carlyle. “Susan, how delightful! I didn’t know you had come home.”

  “Only yesterday,” replies the girl smiling. “I remembered you did the library on Wednesday afternoons.”

  “This is Susan Morven, Mrs. Christie,” says Miss Carlyle, making the introduction with the grave politeness of a bygone age. “Susan and I are old friends, she lives at the Manor House with her father. I expect you have seen the Manor House—a beautiful Queen Anne mansion, built of red brick and half-hidden by trees.”

  I am more interested in the squire’s pretty daughter than in his mansion, and I decide that for once Tony used the wrong word. Susan Morven is much more than pretty; she is really lovely. She is quite young and very slender with an unusually long and graceful neck, which gives her the appealing look of a madonna in a Botticelli painting. Her fair hair is in curls all over her small head, little soft fluffy curls which stray bewitchingly onto her forehead and round her ears. Her skin is pale and clear, her eyes are hazel and widely open, and although she seems full of vivacity there is a curious dignity in her manner which I find extremely attractive.

  “Oh, of course!” exclaims Susan, looking at me with interest. “You’ve taken The Small House.”

  I admit that I have. It has now ceased to surprise me to discover that everybody in Old Quinings knows all about my private affairs.

  “I’m glad,” says Susan nodding. “It’s nice that The Small House isn’t empty anymore. You have a daughter, haven’t you? I mean,” explains Susan, “I mean somebody said you had a daughter—and—and there aren’t many girls in Old Quinings.”

  I take the point and explain my family, adding that it would be nice for Betty and Bryan to know some young people.

  “Yes,” agrees Susan. “But I’m afraid there aren’t many. There’s me, of course, and the Mellers . . .” and she enumerates several other families whose names I cannot remember, but adds that some of them live at a distance and others are rather dull.

  Miss Carlyle, who has been looking very fondly at her young friend, interrupts to say that Susan has been in Paris with her mother.

  “Oh, it was lovely!” declares Susan. “We had a gorgeous time. Of course Wanda knows so many people in Paris. Then we went to Lucerne for a few days. It was very hot, but I loved it. Then Wanda went on to Vienna and I flew home.”

  “Susan loves travelling,” puts in Miss Carlyle.

  “But I like coming home even better,” says Susan quickly. “I
n fact I think the best part of travelling is coming home, don’t you?”

  Miss Carlyle does not reply at once and, as I catch her eye, I know exactly what she feels for the simple reason that I feel the same. (Neither she nor I have homes to come home to and her state is worse than mine. Tim is my home, and wherever he is I am sure of a welcome, but the only “home” she has is the little school-house, and her tenure of it is by no means permanent but depends entirely upon her ability to “hold down her job.”)

  “Yes,” says Miss Carlyle after a little pause. “Yes, I can understand that, Susan dear. The Manor House is so gracious and beautiful; naturally you enjoy coming home.”

  Susan nods. “And there are all sorts of other nice things about home . . . tennis and picnics and riding. Did I tell you Daddy has given me a new horse for my birthday? He’s such a darling. You must come and see him, Miss Carlyle.”

  It is arranged that Miss Carlyle shall visit the Manor and be introduced to Susan’s new acquisition; and then—in case I should feel out of it—they both explain to me that Susan’s old pony died. They also explain that Susan rides all over the country, usually in the early morning before breakfast, and that next winter she hopes to hunt.

  “Some people find the country dull,” says Susan. “Joan Meller is always grumbling about it, but I have so much to do that the days are never long enough to fit everything in.”