Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Oh, my dear paws!” exclaims Bryan (who has borrowed this peculiar expression from a certain sleuth in contemporary fiction and uses it when, but for his mother’s presence, he would say something stronger). “Oh, honestly, Mum! You don’t really mean we’ve got to look after those kids?”

  I reply firmly that I do mean just that.

  “Oh crumbs!” says Bryan. “Oh whiskers! They’re ten, aren’t they? What on earth do you do to amuse kids of ten?”

  I reply unkindly that, as it is not so very long since he himself was ten, he must have a short memory.

  Betty says, “That means we can’t play tennis. Oh well, if we must look after them we must. What do you suppose they would like to do?”

  Perry ventures the suggestion that they could be taken for a walk.

  Bryan sighs heavily and says, “I expect they’re just as fed up as we are.”

  I enquire what he means and he replies that when he was ten he hated being dragged out to see people and much preferred being left to his own devices. He then asks if Major MacDougall is coming too and is somewhat disappointed to hear that Major MacDougall is too busy to come.

  “What on earth do you want to see him for?” asks Betty.

  Bryan chuckles in a secret sort of way.

  “Go on,” says Betty. “What’s the joke? Why do you want to see him?”

  After a little persuasion Bryan explains the mystery, saying that when he was twelve years old he wrestled with Major MacDougall and threw him under the piano, and that if he lives to be a hundred he will never forget the occasion, nor the faces of his elders. “You remember, don’t you, Mum?” enquires Bryan, laughing at the recollection.

  I assure him that I remember every detail clearly.

  “It was that Polish soldier who taught me how to do it,” continues Bryan. “As a matter of fact I had never tried it before and I was quite as surprised as my victim when it happened. I thought they’d all be furious with me, but they weren’t. Dad gave me five bob.”

  Perry says he remembers hearing about it at the time, and he also remembers that Bryan found the trick very useful at school . . . they drift off into happy reminiscences of the time when Bryan practised the trick upon Snodgrass and various other schoolfellows much larger than himself and made them bite the dust.

  Betty has ceased to listen; she remarks dreamily that she remembers holding the twins in her arms when they were babies. They were awfully sweet, but the recollection makes her feel very old.

  I leave them talking and repair to the kitchen to discuss the problem of lunch with Mrs. Daulkes.

  Soon after ten-thirty a small car comes bumping up the road and Grace gets out, followed by her offspring.

  Grace and I have not met for years, but we have a great deal in common and are delighted to see one another. Age has not wearied Grace. With her dark wavy hair, her creamy complexion and her slender figure Grace could pass as under thirty; but I happen to know she is a good deal more. The boys are like Grace and as like one another as the proverbial two peas; they are neatly dressed in grey flannel shorts and blue pullovers. Ian is my godson of course, but which is Ian and which Alec it is impossible to tell.

  Naturally their resemblance to one another rouses comment (which, fortunately, they take in good part) but Grace says she doesn’t know why people think they’re alike, because in reality they’re quite different.

  “She’s the only person we can’t take in,” says one of the creatures, grinning.

  The first thing to decide is what everyone wants to do. Grace says frankly she wants to sit in the garden and talk to me.

  Bryan says with reluctance, “In that case we’d better take the twins for a walk.”

  “Why not take them to the tennis club?” suggests Betty. “We could play and they could watch, couldn’t they?”

  “We might do both,” suggests Perry.

  Some argument ensues in the course of which it becomes fairly obvious that my three young friends are not looking forward with pleasure to the task of entertaining the twins. By the time they have decided upon a walk in the woods the twins have vanished.

  “But where are they?” exclaims Betty in dismay.

  “Perhaps they’ve gone for a walk by themselves,” suggests Perry.

  “But we were going to take them!” cries Bryan.

  Oddly enough, now that their charges have disappeared, the three keepers seem disappointed and show an unaccountable eagerness to find the twins and conduct them to the woods.

  “It’s most extraordinary,” says Betty. “They were here in the hall a few moments ago—”

  “They do that sometimes,” explains their mother. “They have a way of—of just fading out of the picture. One minute they’re there, and the next they’re gone. I shouldn’t worry about them.”

  “Not worry about them!” I exclaim.

  “Goodness no! They’ll be all right,” she replies.

  “It’s most extraordinary,” says Betty. “I wonder whether . . .”

  But Grace goes hastily into the drawing room and I, following her, find her collapsed on the sofa, giggling feebly.

  “Oh dear!” says Grace. “I’m awfully sorry, Hester—but really . . .”

  We both laugh helplessly, and then we apologise to one another and laugh again.

  Grace says, “What a good thing we’ve both got a sense of humour! We’ll call it quits, shall we?”

  This is magnanimous of Grace for the sins of my family are the more heinous—and being older they ought to know better—but as we have a great deal to talk about we abandon the subject for others more interesting and, going out into the garden with cushions and rugs, we settle ourselves in two long cane-chairs for a real good chat.

  It is delightful to talk to Grace; she is my own kind of person. Grace and I have followed the drum together; we have shared all sorts of vicissitudes and we have many common friends. Grace does most of the talking for I want to hear all the news of the regiment—which is at present stationed at Biddington—and about all the people who used to be in the regiment and are now retired. She tells me about Tubby Baxter’s wedding, which was a magnificent affair. (Tubby having resisted the charms of women for years has at last fallen victim to the pretty and attractive daughter of a peer.) She tells me about the Carters and about Stella Hardford, and all about their children; she tells me about Tom Ledgard and the Bensons and half a dozen more. It is ages since I heard any regimental chat and although it used to bore me a little, in the days when I heard too much of it, I find it extremely interesting now.

  Time passes rapidly; I am amazed to discover it is getting on for one o’clock when the side gate opens and two small figures appear.

  “Hullo!” says one of them. “We just wondered if it was nearly dinner-time, that’s all.”

  “We’ve enjoyed ourselves frightfully,” adds the other.

  I am interested to observe that they are quite clean and tidy, for when Bryan was young and had enjoyed a morning’s play he always returned dirty and bedraggled and unfit to be seen. Apparently the twins have inherited not only their mother’s good looks but also her faculty for looking at all times as if she had “come out of a band-box.”

  “What have you been doing?” I enquire.

  They look at one another and smile.

  “Tell us, Ian,” says Grace encouragingly.

  Thus adjured, Ian (one supposes) takes from his pocket a small pile of silver and says, “We earned it.”

  “For the tank,” explains Alec. “You see, Aunt Hester, we’re collecting money for a proper tank for our gold-fish. It will be more fun for them than a bowl that they have to swim round and round in, all the time.”

  “We helped the man to deliver parcels,” says Ian. “The other man, who usually helps him to deliver them, was off duty today, so we offered to help and he took us round in the van. It was fun.”

  “He’s an awfully nice man. His name is George and he has twins—only they’re girls—and he gave us sixpenc
e each.”

  “But you’ve got three shillings there,” says Grace.

  “That was Miss Crease,” replies Alec, who, although the younger, seems to be the leader of the couple.

  “It was rather funny,” says Ian smiling.

  “We played a joke on her,” says Alec, smiling too.

  Grace does not know Miss Crease so she is not as surprised as I am.

  “I’ll tell you,” says Alec, sitting down on the grass and preparing to entertain us with his tale.

  “We’ll both tell you,” declares Ian, doing likewise.

  “It was like this, you see. George said Miss Crease was an old terror, so we thought we’d play a joke on her.”

  “We often play jokes on people,” puts in Ian.

  “Well, you see, there were two parcels for Miss Crease, so Ian took one and I took the other. She was sitting in the garden in a chair.”

  “I went first,” announces Ian. “I said ‘Are you Miss Crease?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’ So then I said, ‘Here’s a parcel for you. I’m helping the man deliver them because the other man’s ill.’ She was terribly ugly,” says Ian shaking his head sadly. “Terribly ugly—but quite polite. She said, ‘Thank you,’ and she asked my name, and then she asked me to get a ball of wool that had rolled under a bush (she was knitting a sort of scarf with terribly ugly pink wool) so I got it for her. Then she said she liked boys, especially when they were clean and tidy and nicely behaved, and she gave me a shilling and I said ‘Thank you’ and went away.”

  “Then I went,” says Alec giggling. “I went up to her and said, ‘Are you Miss Crease?’ and she said, ‘What do you mean? You know perfectly well who I am.’ Oh, it was rich!” exclaims Alec. “But I didn’t laugh at all. I said, ‘Well, are you? You see, I’ve got a parcel for Miss Crease, but I must know if you’re her before I give it to you. George said so.’”

  “I was listening!” declares Ian, rocking himself backwards and forwards in delight. “I was hiding behind a bush, listening!”

  “So then,” continues Alec. “So then she got a bit ratty and said, ‘I suppose this is your idea of a joke! How dare you make fun of me! You’re a very naughty little boy . . .’ and she went on like that—awfully ratty, she was! Then Ian came out of the bushes and we stood in front of her like Tweedledum and Tweedledee with our arms round each other’s necks—not saying anything but just standing.”

  “It always makes people laugh when they do that!”

  “Miss Crease laughed and laughed!”

  “She laughed till she choked!”

  “It was funny!”

  “And then she said, ‘I suppose you think you’ll get another shilling? Well, it’s worth a shilling.’”

  “And then she said, ‘Which of you did I give the shilling to?’ and Ian took it out of his pocket and showed it to her.”

  “So then she took another shilling out of her bag and said to Alec, ‘I suppose you think I should give this to you?’ and Alec said, ‘Yes.’ And then she laughed again and she said, ‘Well, I shan’t, because it says in the Bible, “To them that hath shall be given,”’ and she gave the other shilling to me.”

  “Then she said to me, ‘I suppose you think that isn’t fair?’ and I said, ‘Well, it isn’t fair, is it? But it doesn’t matter because we always go shares.’ She didn’t say anything. So then we both said, ‘Thank-you-very-much-and-good-bye,’ and we came away.”

  “You’re awful,” says Grace chuckling. “Aren’t they awful, Hester?”

  I agree that they are awful.

  Ian says, “But, Mummy, does it really say in the Bible, ‘To them that hath shall be given’?”

  Grace replies that she rather thinks it says, “Unto everyone that hath shall be given . . . but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”

  “But, Mummy, it isn’t fair, is it? And how can you take away things from a person who hasn’t got them?”

  Grace says, “Ask your godmother. That’s what godmothers are for.” Which in my opinion is rank treachery.

  Fortunately at this very moment Mrs. Daulkes opens the window and shouts, “Dinner’s ready!” (this being her usual manner of announcing meals) and the twins leap to their feet and cry with one voice, “Hurrah, we’re simply starving!” By this time the others have returned; and, as they have been playing tennis all the morning, they have recovered their good humour and are interested to hear of the twins’ activities.

  Bryan says quite seriously, “You know there are all sorts of things you could do.”

  “Oh yes, we know,” agrees Alec. “We’re always thinking of new things.”

  “Can you think of anything really smashing?” asks Ian hopefully.

  Four large eyes gaze at Bryan while he endeavours to think of a really smashing joke to be played upon an unsuspecting world by identical twins . . . but Bryan can think of nothing.

  “Sometimes it doesn’t work,” says Alec. “I mean you have to think it out very carefully.”

  “Tell them about The Run,” Ian suggests.

  Alec giggles. “Yes, well, it was at school. There was a cross-country run and they put me down for it. I hate runs,” says Alec emphatically. “And it was a beastly hot day—so we made a plan. Ian started off with the others and then fell out and I waited near the end and came in with them. Of course I didn’t win; that would have been cheating,” says Alec virtuously. “I just came in about ninth. Everything seemed okey doke until we were sent for by Old Shirley. He’s the headmaster of course.”

  “We knew we were for it then,” says Ian with a sigh. “It’s never anything nice when Old Shirley sends for you to go to his study.”

  Alec continues the tale: “Old Shirley was smiling in a funny way and he said, how was it I had started off for the run in dirty gym shoes and come in with clean ones. He said it was careless. He said it ought to have been the other way round. He said if I’d started off with clean ones and come in with dirty ones he wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “He’s so awfully noticing; we call him Sherlock,” says Ian.

  Grace says he is a man of many names. She and Jack usually refer to him as Shylock.

  “So then,” continues Alec, determined on rounding off his tale. “So then he said carelessness was a serious crime and he would have to punish us for it, and we both got whacked.”

  Bryan says it was jolly bad luck, that’s what he thinks, and Perry agrees, saying runs were a blight; he always got out of them when possible and he wishes he had had a twin.

  All is now gas and gaiters and plans are suggested for the afternoon.

  “Could we take them to see the Lion’s Gorge?” suggests Betty.

  “Oh yes!” cries Alec in excitement. “That would be marvellous.”

  “I don’t think it would be very interesting for them,” says Bryan. “It’s a long way and we’d have to go in the bus.”

  “Oh do let’s!” exclaims Ian. “We’d love it . . .”

  “We must start home directly after tea,” says Grace.

  “Well, what time is it?” enquires Alec.

  Bryan looks at his watch and says it is two o’clock.

  “Alec means what time does it happen,” explains Ian.

  “Yes,” nods Alec. “What time do we have to be there?”

  “Any time,” replies Betty.

  “Oh, do let’s go!” cry the twins in unison.

  Everyone now starts talking at once; Grace saying there is no time, Bryan saying they would not enjoy it, and the twins asserting that they simply must see the lions.

  “There aren’t any lions,” says Perry, shouting above the din.

  “No lions!” exclaims Alec in amazement. “But I thought Betty said we could see them having a gorge.”

  The matter takes a little explaining and the twins are more than a little disappointed when all is made clear.

  “Oh well,” says Alec looking very crestfallen. “If it’s only an old rock . . . you see, I thought Betty said would we l
ike to see the lions gorge . . . and of course it would have been fun.”

  “We saw them at the Zoo, gorging like anything,” adds Ian. “The keeper gave them great chunks of meat on the end of pitchforks and they growled and tore them to bits. It was thrilling.”

  As there are no lions to be seen and the afternoon is warm and sultry, it is decided to abandon all idea of an expedition. Grace and I return to our chairs at one end of the garden and our five young friends recline on rugs at the other end; the fact that they are in full view of Miss Crease’s bedroom window does not worry them. Grace and I still have plenty to say to one another but, in spite of my preoccupation, I notice that there is a good deal of talk and laughter going on in the other group and I have a feeling that various ideas for new and daring jokes are being suggested to the twins by their elders.

  We see our friends off after tea. In spite of the unfavourable start the day has been a success; so much so that when we are all seated at the supper-table Bryan suggests we should ask them again.

  “Again?” I ask, hiding my amusement beneath an expression of surprise.

  Bryan chuckles and says, “They remind me of when I was a kid.”

  Perry nods, “Yes, me too. It’s awfully amusing to hear that prep-school talk again. What fun we had at Nearhampton!”

  “It was fun,” agrees Bryan. “You know, Hedgehog old boy, one didn’t really appreciate it at the time. It’s only when one looks back . . . no responsibilities, that’s the secret. I mean you didn’t even have the responsibility of working. You were made to work and you did as little as you could. You never thought about work. Knowledge was shoved into you without your having to bother. All you thought about was rugger or cricket; all you worried about was whether you would get into the Second Eleven.”

  Perry says, “Do you remember those feasts we had in the dorm after lights out? And how we ragged about and had idiotic jokes with our pals and yelled our heads off? Then one of the prefects came and said, ‘What a filthy row! Shut up, you little brutes.’ I began to feel old when I became a prefect,” adds Perry smiling ruefully.