Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You were beastly smug,” declares Bryan. “Lord, how I hated you that term!”

  “My responsibilities were very heavy,” says Perry laughing.

  The conversation continues on these lines. Anybody would think my companions were middle-aged at least.

  “Forty years on,” I tell them.

  “That’s the Eton Song!” exclaims Bryan in surprise.

  “Yes I know: ‘Forty Years On, growing older and older’; it just came into my mind when I heard you and Perry talking about your lost youth.”

  “Well, but it is lost. We shan’t ever be ten again.”

  Betty has been silent, but now she says, “When I’m married I should like to have twins, just like Ian and Alec.”

  Thursday, 9th August

  It is wet this morning; the rain drizzles down in dreary fashion and the trees are droopy and despondent. No tennis is possible so my young friends put on their waterproofs and sally forth to do the shopping. No sooner have they gone than Tony arrives and I can see from his face that something has disturbed him.

  “Look here, Hester,” says Tony, taking me by the arm and dragging me into the drawing room. “I’ve just heard—I mean Freda heard yesterday—Freda went to tea with Mrs. Meller, the vicar’s wife. Apparently there’s some garbled account of our meeting in Rome all over the village.”

  “Oh, I’ve known that for ages.”

  “You knew!” he exclaims.

  “It’s Miss Crease, I expect. She said something about Rome one day. Of course she watches me like a hawk.”

  “How does Miss Crease know about Rome?”

  “Through Mrs. Alston,” I reply. “Mrs. Alston called at the pensione and spoke to Signora Scarlatti—”

  “Damn the lot!” exclaims Tony with concentrated ferocity. “Signora Scarlatti, Mrs. Alston, Miss Crease and Mrs. Meller . . . and all because I flew over to Rome and took you out to dinner!”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me,” he replies. “I was afraid you would be worried.”

  “But it’s all so silly.”

  Tony walks to the window and looks out at the drizzling rain. “I know it’s silly,” says Tony. “The only thing is supposing one of these charming old ladies thinks it her duty to write to Tim?”

  “Tim knows all about it.”

  “Tim knows!”

  “Yes, Tim likes me to write and tell him everything that happens, and especially anything amusing, so of course I told him what we did in Rome.”

  “Great Scott!” exclaims Tony.

  “Why? I mean why shouldn’t I?”

  “No reason at all—as long as he doesn’t—take it the wrong way.”

  Tony’s gravity alarms me a little, for it is unlike Tony to be serious about unimportant matters; and, now that I think about it, I begin to wonder whether Tim has taken it the wrong way. Perhaps Tim was not amused at my amusing account of all that happened in Rome: of how Tony was shown into my bedroom by mistake and how we braved the vultures and went out to dinner together, of my attempts to absorb spaghetti in the manner of the Romans and finally of our walk back to the pensione in the dark and the Signora’s ecstatic welcome.

  “What did Tim say in his letters?” asks Tony after a few moments’ silence.

  “Nothing much,” I reply uncomfortably. “I mean he has been too busy to write long letters. Of course I haven’t told him about the gossip. I thought he might be annoyed.”

  “Annoyed!”

  “Angry, then,” I suggest, amending my statement.

  “He’ll be rabid,” declares Tony. “If I know anything about Tim he’ll be absolutely rabid; and his rage will descend, not upon Miss Crease and Co., but upon me.”

  “Why should it?”

  “Because I’m the world’s prize fool,” says Tony.

  There is a short but pregnant silence.

  “All the same he had better be told,” says Tony at last. “He had better be told the whole story from beginning to end. I’ll write to him myself and explain everything.”

  “Don’t worry him too much!” I exclaim. “Don’t make too much of it! It’s horrible to be worried over things that are happening far away. You can’t talk it over and explain and everything seems a hundred times worse . . .”

  “I’ll be careful,” says Tony, looking down at me and smiling.

  When I accompany my guest to the gate I am surprised to see no large shiny car waiting there.

  “I parked Belshazzar in the square,” says Tony nonchalantly.

  His casual air does not deceive me. “No, Tony!” I exclaim. “No, I don’t like that. When you come to see me please come in your car and leave it at the gate as usual.”

  “Yes,” says Tony thoughtfully. “You’re right of course.”

  “And please come whenever you feel inclined,” I tell him. “I don’t care a button for those old cats and I’m very proud of your friendship.”

  He looks at me with an odd sort of expression and says in an odd sort of voice that he is proud of being my friend.

  There is silence for a few moments after that, and then Tony says in quite a different voice, “That old cat next door is looking at us out of her window. It would be fun to kiss you, but I suppose that’s out of the question.”

  “Quite out of the question,” I reply. “I shouldn’t dream of allowing you to kiss me—not even to please Miss Crease.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t,” says Tony with a sigh.

  Saturday, 11th August

  This is the day appointed for me to do the flowers in church and, as Betty has signified her desire to help me, we take a basket and a pair of scissors and go out into the garden to cut them. Oddly enough I have never been asked to do this before—neither has Betty—and we are both somewhat elated at the privilege and the responsibility which has fallen to our lot.

  “It will be nice seeing them when we go to church tomorrow,” says Betty happily. “We’ll know we’ve done them, I mean. Do you think those white campanulas would be nice? Do you think we could put some of those lovely pink snapdragons with them? Or must they be all white?”

  We are still considering the matter very seriously when Mrs. Daulkes comes out of the house with a letter in her hand.

  “It’s from Mrs. Meller,” explains Mrs. Daulkes. “The youngest Meller boy brought it on ’is bike. I told ’im ’e’d better wait for an answer, but ’e said no answer was required. If it’s to ask you to go round collecting for the organ just you say no. You’ve plenty to do without trailing round the village collecting for the organ.”

  But the letter is not to ask me to collect for the organ, it is to tell me that I am not to do the flowers . . . and, although Mrs. Meller does not state the reason in plain words, she makes it quite clear that she considers me unfit to arrange the altar vases and has changed her plans accordingly.

  It is foolish to feel hurt and disappointed; it is even more foolish to feel ashamed. I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong, so why be ashamed? I have known for some time that the ladies of Old Quinings were shaking their heads over my friendship with Tony and it has not worried me; why should it worry me now? Why should I suddenly feel sick and shaky? It is a mistake, that’s all. It is a very small thing. It will be all the same a hundred years hence—nay, it will be all the same one year hence. There is nothing to worry about. I decide that I am not ashamed, nor upset, and only a very little annoyed with Mrs. Meller and her cronies for their stupidity.

  But Betty is still busy cutting flowers. She is intent upon her task, her bright head stooping over the beds as she looks at each one and carefully selects the best—and only the best—for their high destiny. I have got to disappoint Betty, which is a cruel thought, and the longer I leave it the worse it will be.

  I call to Betty and tell her we are not to do the flowers after all.

  Betty looks up and comes towards me. “Not to do the flowers?” she asks in amazement. “But why?”

  “There’s been some mist
ake,” I reply, looking at the letter in my hand, for it is impossible to meet Betty’s straight honest gaze and lie to her. I hate lies at any time (even the lies which are commonly called white) but to lie to Betty is unbearable.

  “Some mistake?” she asks. “You mean somebody else is doing them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a pity! I’ve picked such a lot and they’re so beautiful!”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We’ll do them next week,” says Betty comfortingly.

  “No, I don’t think so. Mrs. Meller doesn’t ask us to.”

  “You mean we’re not to do them at all?”

  “Mrs. Meller doesn’t mention that.”

  Betty looks at me. “Oh well,” she says. “It’s—it’s disappointing but it can’t be helped. Don’t worry, darling. Don’t look so awfully worried about it. We’ll get out all the vases and have a grand show in the house. That will be nice, won’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s a lovely idea,” I reply.

  Betty puts her arm through mine and squeezes it. “I know you’re disappointed, darling,” she says. “I am, too, of course, but it doesn’t matter really, does it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It isn’t an important sort of disappointment.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Darling,” says Betty anxiously. “Darling, you aren’t feeling sick or anything, are you?”

  “No,” I reply smiling at her and returning the pressure of her arm. “No, I’m perfectly all right. Let’s go and get out the vases and arrange the flowers together.”

  Just for a few minutes Betty and I have changed places; she has been the sensible elder and I the child. It is comforting to lean upon her sympathy and kindness . . . and I am comforted.

  Sunday, 12th August

  My three young friends go off to church without me. It surprises them a little that I do not want to go, and Betty asks anxiously if it is because I am disappointed about the flowers? I assure her that it is not. This is true, for the prohibition to arrange the flowers is merely symptomatic of Mrs. Meller’s feelings, and it is her feelings about me which prevent me from going to church. It would be impossible to fix my attention upon the service with Mrs. Meller sitting just behind me; her eyes boring into my back and her mind thinking unkind thoughts about me . . . and for all I know Mr. Meller may share her views. I shall go next Sunday, for by that time I shall have recovered from the shock. Today I cannot go.

  There is very little to do in the house (we are having a cold lunch and salad from the garden) and, having made the necessary preparations for the meal, I decide to go for my favourite walk by the river. The day is silver with a layer of thin cloud obscuring the sun and everything is very quiet and peaceful. I walk along immersed in thought and, if the truth be told, feeling a little unhappy. There is nobody about, not a creature to be seen; some of the inhabitants of Old Quinings are sleeping, others have gone to church; it is not until I reach the fallen tree beside my special pool that I see another human being.

  Anne Carlyle is sitting upon the tree gazing at the river and it is obvious from her pose that, like me, she is deep in thoughts and not very happy ones. I watch her for a few moments and note the droop of her thin shoulders . . . and wonder whether I should speak to her or not. Perhaps she has come here seeking peace and solitude and my advent will be unwelcome.

  At that moment Anne looks up and sees me, and her sad face brightens to a smile.

  “Mrs. Christie!” she exclaims. “I thought I was the only wicked person!”

  “Two wicked people! But I thought you were going to call me Hester.”

  “I forgot,” says Anne blushing. “There are so few . . . somehow I don’t make friends easily, and I have no relations. In fact I have just been thinking I could drop out of life very easily. There would be—no ripples,” adds Anne with her eyes on the pool.

  “Anne!”

  “It’s ungrateful, isn’t it? I have a great deal to make me thankful, and usually I am thankful and contented. But today is my birthday and although the twelfth of August has no significance and is just like any other day in the year I am foolish enough to feel it to be a milestone.” Anne smiles at me rather shyly and adds, “I was sitting on the milestone reckoning up all the miles I have travelled and feeling a little anxious about the miles in front of me when you found me.”

  It is difficult to know what to say and even if I knew what to say it is doubtful whether I could say it. Perhaps it is foolish to attach importance to the day upon which one was born, but the celebration of a birthday is a pleasant custom. Tim and Bryan and Betty—and others as well—remember my birthday and make it happy. How sad—how unbearable it would be if there was nobody in the world to give one a loving greeting on one’s birthday morning!

  In view of what Anne has said it is impossible to wish her the usual birthday wish, so I kiss her—which surprises and embarrasses her considerably—and wish her happiness.

  When this small ceremony is over Anne changes the subject abruptly by asking why I am not at church, adding hastily that if I do not want to reveal the reason there is no need for me to do so. But this new friend of mine is sympathetic and I need a confidante so, after a little hesitation, I tell her the whole story.

  Anne listens in silence—she is an excellent listener—and when I have finished the silence continues. I glance at her anxiously and begin to wonder whether it was a mistake to tell her; she is a nun-like creature and perhaps she is shocked.

  “Poor Mrs. Meller!” says Anne at last.

  “Poor Mrs. Meller?” I repeat in bewilderment.

  “So narrow-minded, so mistaken in her judgment!”

  “Mistaken, certainly,” I agree. “It’s dreadful that anyone could think I was so wicked.”

  “Not wicked, surely.”

  “Mrs. Meller thinks so.”

  “Yes, because she is a foolish, narrow-minded woman. Love should be free,” says Anne calmly.

  “Love should be free!” I echo in amazement.

  “Perfectly free,” declares my nun-like friend. “I have thought about it a great deal and the more I think about it the more I realise the beauty of true love. It is quite wrong that any woman—or any man—should be tied by marriage. In an Utopian State love would be free.”

  “But, Anne—”

  “Of course I appreciate the difficulties,” she continues thoughtfully. “And perhaps in our present state of partial civilisation it would be impossible to abolish the tie of marriage . . .” She goes on to expound her ideas on the subject with earnest sincerity, quoting various Great Lovers of classical fame—amongst them Sappho, who threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the sea for love of Phaon:

  “Thence injured lovers, leaping from above,

  Their flames extinguish and forget to love.”

  Naturally she does not omit to mention Abelard and Heloise and Hero and Leander, who counted the world well lost for love. She sweeps on through the centuries; she speaks of Romeo and Juliet, of Lord Nelson and Emma Hamilton and a host of other Great Lovers whose names I have never heard . . . and from all these examples she draws the conclusion that Cupid should reign supreme and the course of True Love should always run smooth. It is obvious that she has studied the subject and given it much thought and her erudition is amazing.

  Several times I endeavour to interrupt Anne to explain that I do not share her views, but without success . . . and somehow this reminds me of another conversation on the same subject but in very different surroundings; my conversation with Signora Scarlatti. It is very strange to discover that Anne and the Signora share the same views. Two more different women it would be difficult to imagine yet both are apostles of “Free Love.” Stranger still is it to discover that, whereas I was not really shocked to hear these views propounded by the Signora, I am definitely shocked to hear them propounded by Anne. I am so shocked that for some minutes my brain refuses to function, but after a little I realise that Ann
e holds these astounding views because she is absolutely innocent—and ignorant. In theory she knows a great deal about love, in practice nothing. The Signora’s case was the opposite.

  Fortunately I am not hampered by the necessity of trying to explain myself in a foreign language. “Listen to me!” I exclaim, breaking, without ceremony, into her account of the love of Paul and Virginie. “Listen to me, my dear Anne. You know nothing whatever about it.”

  “I know nothing about it!” she cries in bewilderment.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I explain. “The kind of love you’re talking about is very wonderful no doubt, but when you’ve been married for over twenty years you love one another in quite a different way. You’re partners in the game of life, you’re necessary to one another. It’s a far bigger thing than—than physical attraction which does not last.”

  “But in many cases—”

  “No, it does not,” I tell her. “It may develop into the other kind of love—the kind I’m talking about—or it may die a natural death. Only time can tell which of the two things will happen.”

  “But, Mrs. Christie!” exclaims Anne. “What about Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett? They were Great Lovers all their lives!”

  “They loved one another—which is quite a different thing.”

  Anne does not believe me. She is a romantic and her fairy tales satisfy her and give colour to her drab existence . . . and, as it is now getting late, I rise and tell her I must go home and cook the potatoes for lunch.

  “You are funny,” says Anne.

  “Potatoes are important,” I reply. “Love fades and dust hath closed Helen’s eye but potatoes go on forever. I do them in the pressure cooker so they don’t take long.”

  Anne laughs—which is what I intended her to do—and we walk home together in amity.

  We talk about Miss Stroude as we walk home. Anne has seen the Byron letter, but has no idea of its present whereabouts. She is very angry when she hears that I have been directed to pull down the blinds and shut out the sun so that it shall not fade the carpets.