Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  We spend a few minutes chatting. All the correct things are said and various plans are made for picnics and junkets when Bryan and Betty return. Miss Carlyle suggests that I should write to Betty and tell her of the pleasures in store—and this I promise to do.

  It is all very pleasant and I am delighted about it, but as I walk home I begin to experience doubts. The fact is my family does not always share my enthusiasm for new friends and especially for new friends which are foisted upon them by their elders. I am enchanted with Susan, but supposing Bryan and Betty are not? It would have been better to let things alone, to wait and see, to allow them to make friends with Susan themselves.

  I decide, a little sadly, that my impulsive nature has betrayed me again.

  Thursday, 5th July

  Mrs. Daulkes arrives as usual and with her the postman who hands me two letters, one from Tim and the other in an unknown hand. Tim’s letter has precedence of course and although it is short it cheers me considerably. Quite obviously Tim has settled down. The other letter is from Rosa Alston, which surprises me, for so much has happened in the last fortnight that I have almost forgotten her.

  Rose Bank,

  Esher. 4th July.

  Dear Mrs. Christie,

  I hope you enjoyed your short visit to Rome and arrived home safely. I was sorry we did not meet in Rome. I called at your pensione on the afternoon following our arrival as we had arranged—the 15th of June to be exact—but Signora Scarlatti told me you had gone out with a friend and she did not know when you would be back. Of course it did not matter at all as our arrangement was quite vague and indefinite. It was very pleasant meeting you on the plane and our conversation whiled away the time and made the journey seem much shorter than usual . . .

  I pause here and feel extremely guilty, for Mrs. Alston and I made a quite definite arrangement to go out together on the afternoon following our arrival in Rome—a fact which I had completely forgotten until this moment—and instead of being annoyed at my casual behaviour, Mrs. Alston has taken it in a most Christian spirit and covered my rudeness with a layer of the best butter.

  The letter continues:

  Edmond and I are staying with some friends at Esher. As I told you my summer was fully planned out (we are supposed to be going to Cheltenham early in August and then on to Scotland); but Edmond has some reading to do and finds it difficult to concentrate when staying with friends. With so much going on in the house it is impossible for him to work. Edmond suggests we should find rooms in some quiet country place where he could do as he liked without upsetting other people’s arrangements. I have been thinking of Old Quinings. I knew it well when I was a girl and talking to you about it made me remember it clearly. Somehow I feel it would be the right place and perhaps not as expensive as other larger places. Do you think it would be possible for us to get rooms in Old Quinings? Either the Bull and Bush or quiet lodgings would suit us. It would be very kind of you if you could find out and let me know as soon as possible. I feel I am imposing on you dreadfully but I really am rather worried.

  With kindest regards,

  Yours very sincerely,

  Rosa Alston

  My first reaction to the second half of Mrs. Alston’s letter is a feeling of amusement, not unmixed with annoyance; here is the reason for the butter! But second thoughts are more charitable and I decide I must help her. The letter is an S.O.S.; obviously Mrs. Alston is in desperate straits—and she was kind to me on the plane. I imagine myself in her shoes, staying in other people’s houses with a “difficult” son who wants peace to work. I imagine myself a buffer, trying to behave like a perfect guest and contending with the moods of a bear. Of course I must help her, and without delay. If Annie cannot have the Alstons she will be able to advise me where lodgings can be found . . . so I arrange a few domestic matters with Mrs. Daulkes and set off to the Bull and Bush.

  Annie is laying the tables in the dining room; she asks anxiously if everything is all right. “Mrs. Daulkes said you were quite cheery,” declares Annie. “I meant to come along on Sunday but we had a frightful day: two buses from Birmingham and the girl laid up with a poisoned foot and of course, being Sunday, I couldn’t get nobody to help. I didn’t know what work was till I came here—neither did Fred,” says Annie frankly. “Never, not even at Tocher House. At any rate you got your time off regularly. Here it’s day and night and you never know from one minute to the next.”

  This amuses me a little for Annie often complained of her burdens in bygone days, or, if she did not exactly complain, she spoke of them as being onerous.

  “But you like being here?” I enquire.

  “Oh yes,” nods Annie. “We’re working up the place—it had been let go down a bit—and it’s very interesting kind of work. Fred was saying last night we’ve never thanked you properly. If it hadn’t of been for you and the Colonel and General Morley we’d never have had the Bull—not by a hundred miles.”

  I assure Annie that we want no thanks and are delighted it is such a success. Then I broach the subject of the Alstons.

  “Well,” says Annie thoughtfully, “I don’t see why not. We’re pretty full just now, but we could give the young gentleman number nine—it’s a biggish back-bedroom—and we could put in a table for him to work at. There’s only a small room we could give the lady, but it might do at a pinch. We’ve been using it to store things in; but we could move the things and smarten it up a bit. You’d better see what you think.”

  I examine the rooms and decide that unless Mrs. Alston demands a high standard of comfort they will suit her admirably, and I write off at once describing the accommodation and stating terms.

  Friday, 6th July

  By this time I have fallen naturally into a routine. I get up at eight and have my bath and breakfast before Mrs. Daulkes arrives. I shop in the morning and sit in the garden after lunch. I sit in the shade of a magnificent old beech tree and read or knit—or merely think in a vague and idle manner. I make my tea when I feel inclined and then go out for a walk through the woods or in the fields which surround Old Quinings. After supper I write a few letters and then go off to bed.

  So far none of my neighbours has called to see me (though I am informed by Mrs. Daulkes that they will do so) and to tell the truth I am not sorry for I am enjoying this spell of absolute peace. In the course of my wanderings I have started life anew in many places, and in every place the same thing happens: at first there is little to do, one knows nobody and life passes by like a pageant, then gradually the world breaks in and one becomes a part of the pageant instead of a mere spectator.

  The weather is warm and sunny; it is the right sort of weather for idling in a light summer frock. Unfortunately, however, all my light summer frocks are coming by sea and will not be here for another fortnight at least. (Looking back, I remember myself sitting upon the floor of the sun-drenched bungalow surrounded with piles of garments and suitcases, large and small, and trying vainly to make up my mind what I shall really need; which of these garments is to come with me by air—squeezed into the limited compass of the air-travel bag—and which is to follow by sea. The problem was complicated by the fact that it was extremely hot, by my recollections of a cold, wet English summer, and by Tim’s advice to “take warm clothes.”)

  Mrs. Daulkes is sympathetic and helpful. “You could try Miss Phipps,” she suggests. “Miss Phipps would run you up a nice summer dress in no time. She wouldn’t let you down. All the ladies round about ’ere go to Miss Phipps. You go to Miss Phipps straight off; I’ll tell you ’ow to get there.”

  “Straight off” is a favourite expression. Mrs. Daulkes likes to do everything straight off. Whether it be turning out the drawing room (a form of employment in which she delights) or posting a letter or telephoning to the fishmonger. Mrs. Daulkes is all for doing it straight off . . . and as I am aware that I shall get no peace until I have visited Miss Phipps I set off then and there.

  “It’s easy to find,” says Mrs. Daulkes, pursuing me
to the door. “You cross the ’Igh Street and take the first to the left—near Wiggs the baker’s it is—then left again before you get to the smithy, and down a steep ’ill. You turn right at the bottom—or near the bottom—but I don’t mean the street that takes you into the old village, nor yet the one that takes you to the mill—that would land you down near the river. You must turn before you get there. It’s a nice respectable street and Miss Phipps is the second ’ouse on the right with geraniums in the window-boxes. It isn’t far and it’s quite easy to find. You can’t make a mistake.”

  I have a feeling Mrs. Daulkes is wrong but there is nothing for it but to try.

  Wiggs the baker is easy, of course, and as his establishment is my first landmark I make for it with all speed. The High Street is broad and open and at one end of it is the War Memorial set about with iron seats beneath shady trees. These seats are usually occupied by old men, reading their papers, and by women with shopping-baskets or perambulators, taking a rest and chatting to one another the while. All this gives Old Quinings a leisurely, friendly air and for this reason my first impression of Old Quinings was of a leisurely, friendly village; but today I am to see a different Old Quinings.

  The little street near Wiggs the baker is narrow and cobbled; it winds between the houses in a perplexing manner and although there are several turns to the right there is none that turns left. Quite soon I reach the blacksmith’s—which is wrong of course for I should have turned before. The only thing to do is to retrace my steps.

  A forge is a fascinating place and before I retrace my steps I linger there, standing in the doorway of the dark little shed. The blacksmith is small and dirty; his face is hairy as an ape’s, his arms are long and skinny but knotted with muscle. He is busily engaged in shaping a horse’s shoe upon the anvil while the horse stands patiently nearby. The red-hot iron is bent like butter and twisted and hammered into shape; the fire glows and the sparks fly upward in the gloom. Presently the shoe is ready and is clamped into place upon the horse’s hoof with the usual sizzling and smoking and the usual horrible smell of burning. It is difficult to believe this is not a painful process for the horse, but obviously it is not, for the horse makes no objection.

  Having seen the job through, I decide it is time for me to go but unfortunately I have been so absorbed in the shoeing that I have forgotten which way I came. The blacksmith will tell me the way, of course, but the difficulty is I have no idea how to put my question; for, although Mrs. Daulkes told me exactly how to find Miss Phipps, she omitted to give me her address.

  I approach the blacksmith a trifle diffidently. “Did you see me come in?” I enquire. “I mean which way did I come? Can you tell me?”

  The blacksmith looks at me (his eyes are bright like the eyes of an animal in his dark, hairy face) but he makes no reply.

  “Did I come this way . . . or that?” I ask him, pointing.

  The blacksmith is silent. Somehow I cannot blame him for his refusal to answer my question.

  Leaving the forge I turn to the right and after walking about a hundred yards I discover a turning to the left, and take it . . . but this is wrong, of course, for I am coming in the other direction. I stand still and think it out seriously. The thing to do is to go back to the forge and start afresh; so I turn and go back, but the forge seems to have vanished. By this time I am lost—mentally and physically—and I wander hopelessly up one street and down another.

  This place is the old village which Mrs. Daulkes mentioned. It must be hundreds of years old. It must have been here long, long before the other Old Quinings was thought of. The streets are mere lanes, paved with cobbles, narrow and winding; the houses are small and dark with tiny windows and sagging roofs and they are huddled together in a sinister sort of fashion as if they were whispering secrets to one another and did not want to be overheard. There is an odd sort of twilight in the streets for the houses are so close that the light of day cannot penetrate, and there is a stifling feeling—as if too many people were living herded together and using up the air. In spite of this, however, there is nobody to be seen, not a creature from whom I can ask the way. Now and then I think I see a face peering out of one of the little dark windows but, before I can be certain that it really is a face, it has gone.

  This maze of twisting lanes and leering houses is very small (it must be small for it lies between the broad High Street of Old Quinings and the river) and yet I am lost . . . it is quite absurd . . . it is even more absurd to be a little frightened.

  When I discover that I am frightened I stand quite still and take myself to task. What is there to be frightened of? There is nothing. Obviously I have been walking round and round in a circle like a person lost in a maze and the stifling atmosphere and leaden light is due to an approaching thunderstorm. All I have to do to get out of this horrible place is to walk straight on (or as straight as the winding street permits) and turn neither to the right nor to the left . . . and of course this is the solution to the problem for after a few minutes walking I discover myself back where I started, at Wiggs, the baker’s.

  Mr. Wiggs is a humane man and when I explain what has happened to me he says that old village is a bad place and did ought to be pulled down, but then where are you to put the people? There’s the rub. Those houses can’t be pulled down until other houses are built . . . and building is a slow matter with everything so scarce.

  “I don’t wonder you got a bit scared,” says Mr. Wiggs kindly. “Bad things used to go on down there, and bad things still go on, if all they say is true.”

  Mr. Wiggs is not only sympathetic but also helpful and, calling an extremely small errand boy, deputes him to lead me to Miss Phipps, to wait for me and bring me back again. He adds that I shall be quite safe with Jacky because Jacky is a Cub and this will be his Good Deed for today.

  Jacky is quite willing to undertake the task so we set out together and presently arrive safe and sound at the little house with the geraniums in the window-boxes.

  Miss Phipps is a large untidy woman, dressed in a peculiar assortment of garments, but in spite of her obvious disregard of her own personal appearance she seems very competent. She shows me several dresses which are half-finished and these seem very nicely made.

  “This is Mrs. Meller’s old black lace,” explains Miss Phipps. “She’s had it for ten years to my knowledge. I’m taking it to pieces and making it into a pinafore dress that she can wear with a coatee. She’s putting on weight like mad,” adds Miss Phipps confidentially. “And I’m doing up Miss Carlyle’s grey for the school concert. She keeps her figure well . . . and I’m altering this jade cotton frock for Miss Susan Morven; she got it in Paris but it doesn’t fit well on the shoulders. Pretty, isn’t it?” says Miss Phipps displaying it with pride. “Suits her, too. She is a pretty young creature, isn’t she?”

  “Yes indeed!”

  “You haven’t seen Miss Susan’s mother have you?” asks Miss Phipps. “Miss Susan always calls her Wanda, which seems a bit odd to me but then I was brought up very strictly. Mrs. Morven is beautiful—really beautiful—and of course her clothes are beautiful too. She gets them all in Paris at the Very Best Places,” says Miss Phipps in awed tones. “They must cost a fortune, but she’s American and Americans are always rich, aren’t they?”

  This sounds a little sweeping to me and I suggest that some Americans may be less rich than others.

  Obviously Miss Phipps does not agree, but she is too polite to say so. “She doesn’t like Old Quinings,” continues Miss Phipps. “You can’t wonder, really. I mean it’s a dull little place for a lady like Mrs. Morven. At one time there was talk of a divorce but that blew over and everything seems all right. She doesn’t stay here long but just comes and goes as the fancy takes her. She thinks nothing of flying to America and back. Of course Miss Susan stays here most of the time with her father—very devoted they are. I always think Miss Susan was the one who got them to make it up.”

  For the last few moments I have been trying
to stop this flow of indiscretions but without success; I might as well have tried to stop the torrent which rushed from Bryan’s burst dam. There is nothing for it but to raise my voice and enquire loudly if Miss Phipps will make me a dress.

  “A dress!” exclaims Miss Phipps stopping suddenly. “You mean a new dress, starting from scratch?”

  I explain exactly what I want and the reason.

  “Oh, that will be nice,” cries Miss Phipps. “Of course I don’t mind altering things for my clients—as a matter of fact most of my work is altering, because nowadays, with income tax at nine-and-sixpence in the pound, ladies can’t afford new frocks, but it is nice to start from scratch. It gives you so much more scope. Have you brought the material?”

  “No, I thought perhaps you might have some.”

  “I don’t usually keep materials,” she says. “But I’ll just see . . .”

  Miss Phipps hurries away and returns with a small roll of gingham. It is pale lilac, self-coloured, and the moment I see it I decide that it is exactly right. I can see myself sitting in the garden or busying myself about The Small House wearing the frock that Miss Phipps is going to make for me.

  “Yes, it suits you,” declares Miss Phipps, as she drapes the material over my shoulder and stands back with her head on one side to admire the effect. “I thought it would suit you. I just said to myself that lilac gingham is the very thing. You have the same colouring . . .”

  “The same colouring?” I enquire.

  “I mean it’s the right colouring for you,” explains Miss Phipps. “It’s lucky, isn’t it? Customers usually provide their own material, but I just happened to have this . . . and if you’re in a hurry for a frock I could put aside Miss Carlyle’s grey and get it done in half no time.”