Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  We have got rid of Miss Stroude but I cannot get rid of the exceedingly uncomfortable feelings which the disappearance of the wretched letter have aroused in my breast and I spend some hours hunting for it in all sorts of probable and improbable places—including places where I know it cannot possibly be.

  Bryan pretends to be scornful about the matter and assures me that the letter is not in the house at all. Nobody in their senses would leave a valuable letter kicking about the house. The letter is in the bank, says Bryan, or else it has been sold without Miss Stroude’s knowledge, or perhaps there never was a letter at all and Miss Stroude is kicking up all this fuss to annoy us and to make us leave The Small House before our lease is up.

  “Yes,” declares Bryan. “That’s what it is. She wants us out of the house. She tried one way to get us out, and now she’s trying another. She thinks we’ll get so fed up that we’ll pack and go. That’s what it is. Mark my words.”

  Bryan’s theory sounds far-fetched to me and I have a suspicion that he does not believe it himself; a suspicion which is considerably strengthened when I discover him taking all the books out of the book-case in the dining room and ruffling through the pages.

  “Oh!” exclaims Bryan when he sees me come in to lay the supper. “Oh, I just thought—I mean you never know. Things do get shoved away in books sometimes.”

  I tell him that already I have been through all those books and the Byron letter is not there.

  “Oh!” says Bryan in disappointed tones.

  Friday, 17th August

  “I must go to London for a few days,” Mrs. Alston says. We have met in the chemist’s, where I am buying some soap and Mrs. Alston is endeavouring to obtain some especially strong form of antiseptic bath-powder.

  “You see,” continues Mrs. Alston. “You see I must have some clothes for Scotland. I must have a tweed coat. Yes, I’ve made up my mind to go to Scotland after all. I don’t know whether Edmond will come or not; he doesn’t seem to know what he wants to do—it’s very worrying—but I’ve decided to go myself. I really can’t bear this place any longer. Don’t you think I’m right?”

  The question is a little difficult to answer but fortunately the young man in the chemist’s has succeeded in unearthing a tin of the antiseptic bath-powder and at this moment returns with it triumphantly, so there is no need to answer.

  “Yes, that’s it!” cries Mrs. Alston. “I’ll have two tins. I want it for the bath,” she explains, turning to me. “You see several other people use the bath, so I always wash it thoroughly before Edmond uses it. I don’t think Mrs. Bollings is very pleased about it, but I can’t help that. I have to look after Edmond—not bothering him, but just watching him carefully. He has always needed care and of course he’s all I’ve got. Edmond and I are alone in the world,” adds Mrs. Alston pathetically.

  “You have no relations?” I ask; not because I want to know but because I must say something.

  “No relations at all. We have always been everything to each other . . . and, as I say, I have to look after him. I watch what he eats, of course; I know exactly what suits him and what doesn’t. I like him to have a clean pair of socks every day—and a clean handkerchief. I once read that a used handkerchief is a very dangerous source of infection. I look after Edmond in all sorts of little ways. It’s the little things that matter.”

  Poor Mrs. Alston! I remember Edmond’s cry: “If only Mother would let me alone!” and I decide that it is quite terrifying when people misunderstand one another so completely. My sympathies are with Edmond (for I am aware that it would drive Bryan mad if I ran after him all the time forcing clean socks and handkerchiefs upon him and insisting that the bath must be disinfected before he used it) but I can spare a little sympathy for Mrs. Alston as well.

  “Little things like that matter, don’t they?” she asks.

  It is obvious that she wants reassurance. She wants me to tell her that little things matter and that Edmond is fortunate in having such a good mother . . . but how can I reassure her?

  “Men don’t like being fussed over,” I tell her.

  “Oh, but I never fuss!” she exclaims. “I just watch Edmond and do things for him unobtrusively. For instance this morning at breakfast he said he would have a kipper—and of course I know kippers don’t suit him—so I just got up quite quietly and went and told Mrs. Bollings to bring him an egg instead. Things like that,” says Mrs. Alston earnestly. “You see what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I reply, for I see exactly what she means. I look at her and wonder whether it would be any use trying to make her understand how maddening undue solicitude can be. I decide that it would not. It is Mrs. Alston’s nature to be unduly solicitous and, as she has reached her present mature age without realising how extremely annoying she is, it would be hopeless to try to change her.

  “Perhaps you think it’s rather unkind of me to leave Edmond here and go to London?”

  “You must get clothes . . .”

  “Yes, I really must. And I thought . . .” Mrs. Alston hesitates and then continues in confidential tones. “I do want Edmond to come to Scotland with me; it would be so good for him to have a complete change of air . . . and I thought if I went to London for a few days, and left him here alone, he would realise how much I do for him. I mean he would miss me, wouldn’t he? You see what I mean?”

  “Yes,” I reply, nodding. “Yes, I think you should go.”

  “Do you think it’s very naughty of me?” asks Mrs. Alston smiling archly.

  “It’s worth trying.”

  “He’s rather selfish,” she explains. “He really is just a tiny bit inconsiderate . . . besides it really would be so good for him to come to Scotland.”

  My parcel of soap is now ready so I take it and escape.

  Bryan and Betty are going to London tomorrow; they are looking forward to ten days of gaiety with their uncle and aunt but I can see they have qualms about leaving me alone. They cannot understand why I refuse to shut up The Small House and come with them—as I have been invited most cordially to do—and it is all the more difficult for me to explain my reasons because they are so mixed. Perhaps my chief reason is that I do not want to exchange the peace and quiet of The Small House for the rush and bustle of Wintringham Square but there are various other reasons as well.

  Betty goes to bed as usual and when I go up to say good night to her she puts down her book and hugs me.

  “I wish you were coming,” she says. “It will be fun. But all the same I’m awfully sorry the last three weeks are over.”

  “You’re coming back,” I remind her.

  “I know,” she agrees. “But the last three weeks are over. We can’t ever have them again.”

  This feeling is well known to me (past pleasures can never return; we go on to other pleasures but they are different) but it seems strange that Betty should have discovered this truth, for to the young it is the present that counts.

  “It’s been lovely,” continues Betty, as she draws up her legs to make room for me to sit down on her bed. “It’s been almost perfect. Perry is such a dear, isn’t he? Somehow or other he seems like one of the family; he fits in so well.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “We’re all very fond of Perry. Aren’t we?”

  “Do you think he likes me?”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “I think so too,” agrees Betty, smiling happily.

  Whether this is good or bad—from Perry’s point of view—it would be difficult to say. Betty is sitting up in bed in her favourite attitude, with her arms round her knees; she is wearing pale blue pyjamas of the recognised school pattern and, with her round rosy cheeks and fair tousled hair, she looks about ten years old. She returns my gaze frankly and her blue eyes are honest and innocent as the eyes of a very small child.

  “Yes, I think he does like me,” says Betty seriously. “I think he likes me especially—not just as one of the family.”

  I wait for more—half-hoping, half-
fearing to hear it—but no more is said about Perry. We talk for a few minutes about arrangements for tomorrow and then Betty yawns and rubs her eyes. I leave her to her slumbers and go to bed myself.

  Part V

  The Wind Changes

  Saturday, 18th August

  Having seen Bryan and Betty off to London I return to domestic affairs, but somehow domestic affairs seem unimportant. The house is quiet and empty in spite of the activities of Mrs. Daulkes . . . even Mrs. Daulkes is quieter than usual and her dustings and polishings are unaccompanied by song. At my solitary lunch, which consists of a cod steak and a dish of salad, I think of Bryan and Betty and Richard and Mary having lunch together in Wintringham Square. There will be chatter and laughter, plans will be made for the afternoon—what a gay meal it will be! Why was I so foolish as to refuse to go?

  My feeling of loneliness and bereavement is unexpected for I enjoyed my quiet life in The Small House before Bryan and Betty and Perry descended upon me and stirred me up. I remind myself of this and decide quite firmly that I am being very silly; I shall enjoy it again. I shall resume my routine; I shall read and knit and sit in the garden and go for walks as before. This afternoon I shall sit in the garden of course . . . so I finish my lunch quickly and selecting a book at random from the ill-starred book-case I go out and settle myself beneath the tree.

  The book I have taken is The Wind in the Willows which is an old favourite of mine; I know it well, having read it to Bryan and Betty, and also for my own amusement. Although it is a book beloved of children there is much in it that children cannot appreciate; there is much in it to entertain and instruct an adult mind. Today, however, The Wind in the Willows fails to charm me for, like Martha, I am troubled about many things.

  I am troubled about Tim. I have not heard from him this week which is very unusual. Is he ill, I wonder, or is he angry and upset. Perhaps I should not have let Tony write to him. Perhaps he has taken the silly gossip-mongering too seriously. In addition to my worries about Tim I am troubled about the Byron letter; I am worried about Edmond (who has not yet been to see me); I am unhappy about Anne.

  The worst of it is that I can do nothing about any of these worries; it is impossible to get into touch with Tim and find out what he is thinking; the Byron letter cannot be found, and my two friends, Edmond Alston and Anne Carlyle, must worstle through their difficulties without my aid, for it is not in my power to help them.

  Mrs. Daulkes now appears attired for the road in a long green coat with a fur collar which she wears without regard to the weather or the temperature. She approaches saying she is just off and will be here on Monday as usual and adds that the General’s car is at the gate and she’ll put him in the drawing room.

  “That’ll cheer you up,” says Mrs. Daulkes kindly.

  This annoys me slightly which is most unreasonable because of course she is right; I need cheering up and Tony’s visit is welcome.

  Tony is in the drawing room when I go in. He smiles and says he has come to cheer me up and adds that I look as if I needed it. He thinks I ought to have gone to London, it would have done me good. I am lonely, that’s what’s the matter.

  “It isn’t at all,” I reply somewhat tartly. “I’m perfectly happy alone—if everything is all right.”

  Tony’s face changes and he asks anxiously what has gone wrong.

  I review my various troubles and decide to tell Tony about Miss Stroude and the missing letter and, as he has been told nothing about the matter before, it makes quite a long story.

  “A Byron letter,” says Tony thoughtfully. “Yes, I daresay she might get quite a lot for that. Where can it be?” His eyes rove round the room as he speaks.

  “Do you expect to see it hanging on the wall?” I enquire with bitter irony.

  “N-no,” he replies. “But still—I suppose you’ve looked in the drawers of that bureau.”

  “Your supposition is correct.”

  “Don’t bite me,” he says smiling. “I was only trying to help. Sometimes there are secret drawers in those old Chippendale bureaux and—”

  “Tony!” I cry, leaping from my seat.

  We approach the bureau together. We open the flap. We feel it all over. We tap it and press it and shake it but without result.

  “No,” says Tony with a sigh. “No. Sorry to have raised your hopes. The fact is I’ve got a bureau something like this and it’s got rather a neat little secret drawer . . . but this one hasn’t, or else its secret is too cunning to be found.”

  But I have not given up hope. “Let’s take out all the drawers and examine it thoroughly,” I suggest.

  The top drawer is full of my own belongings, writing paper and envelopes and bills. We take it out and put it on the sofa. Tony puts his hand into the space and brings out a piece of crumpled paper.

  “The letter!” I exclaim, seizing it from him in triumph.

  But it is not the letter, it is only a half sheet of azure notepaper, dirty and creased, covered with large and rather illegible writing and with the address, THE SMALL HOUSE, OLD QUININGS printed in the top right hand corner. I am so disgusted with it that I crumple it up and throw it into the waste-paper basket.

  “Hold hard!” says Tony. “Let’s see what it is. I’m rather an inquisitive person.” He retrieves it from the waste-paper basket and smooths it out carefully.

  “What is it?” I enquire.

  “You remember what Catherine Morland found in the secret drawer?”

  “A washing list.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s a washing list!”

  “No,” says Tony slowly. “No, I think it’s a Will!”

  “You think it’s a Will!” I exclaim incredulously. “What nonsense, Tony! It can’t be a Will.”

  “Why not?” he enquires.

  To me a Will is an imposing document, neatly typed upon parchment and fastened with pink tape. That dirty, dog-eared, crumpled piece of notepaper is not my idea of a legal document. I explain this to Tony, but he replies quite seriously that there are Wills and Wills; he has a feeling that this piece of paper may be a perfectly legal document.

  We read it together:

  THE SMALL HOUSE

  OLD QUININGS

  Wednesday 28th March, 1951.

  This is the last Will and Testament of me Lorna Stroude of The Small House, Old Quinings, which I make this 28th day of March, 1951, and whereby I revoke all previous Wills and Testamentary dispositions.

  1. I hereby appoint my friend Richard Morven to be the executor of this my Will.

  2. I give all my property real and personal to my dear friend Anne Carlyle at present residing in The School House, Old Quinings.

  Signed by the testator in the presence of us both present at the same time who in her presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto set our names as witnesses.

  Edward Shanks, waiter at The Apollo and Boot, Wandlebury.

  Amy Ward, chambermaid at The Apollo and Boot, Wandlebury.

  “Do you realise what this means?” exclaims Tony.

  “But it can’t be a proper Will. It isn’t even typewritten—”

  “All the better. It’s in Mrs. Stroude’s own handwriting, or so one supposes. Is there such a thing as a Whitaker’s Almanac in the house?”

  There is no copy of the reference book in the cupboard but eventually we discover one beneath the table where the telephone stands; it is a 1948 edition and contains all the information we require. According to Whitaker Mrs. Stroude’s last Will and Testament is in perfect order.

  Until now I have not believed that it was possible, but now I begin to believe and my excitement grows; it grows all the more quickly when a rough draft of the Will is discovered by Tony between the leaves of the book. This proves that we are not the only people who consulted Whitaker on the subject of Wills.

  Tony is excited too. “This is fun!” he exclaims. “My goodness, this is absolutely staggering! I wouldn’t have missed this for worlds . . . our long-no
sed friend will be as sick as mud, won’t she? No more striding into the house and pulling down the blinds! It isn’t her house—nor her blinds!”

  “Tony, are you sure?”

  “And the joke is,” says Tony laughing delightedly, “the cream of the joke is that the whole thing is entirely her own fault. If she hadn’t made herself so unpleasant we should never have found it.”

  “She might have found it herself . . . someday.”

  “Yes, and then what? I wonder,” says Tony. “I wonder what she would have done!”

  “What do we do next?” I enquire, for as a matter of fact I am concerned not so much with Miss Stroude’s displeasure as with the good fortune of Anne Carlyle. Dear Anne, it is like one of her own fairy-tales come true!

  Tony does not answer my question. Instead he says, “I suppose you’ve noticed that it’s witnessed by our friend Edward Shanks of the Apollo and Boot. He told us about it that day—do you remember?”

  “It was one of his romantic incidents!”

  “Of course. What a pity we didn’t ask him who the lady was! It just shows, doesn’t it?”

  “Shows what?” I enquire.

  “Shows that one should turn every stone and leave no avenue unexplored,” replies Tony smiling. “The fact is I was beginning to get slightly bored with the romantic Edward, so I shut him up and we came away without hearing his story.” This is true of course but I doubt if Edward would have told us the mysterious lady’s name and, even if he had told us, we could have done nothing until the Will was found . . . but these conjectures are getting us no further so again I enquire of Tony what we shall do.

  Tony considers our next move seriously and then says he will write a short account of how and where we found the document. We will both sign it in the presence of each other and put it in an envelope, together with the Will and the rough draft. We will address the envelope to Richard Morven and seal it with a big red seal.