Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Is there something else?” I enquire.

  “Well—yes,” he says doubtfully. “It’s difficult sometimes for a doctor to know how much to tell. But I think I’ll risk it. The real trouble is that our patient is under-nourished. That’s at the bottom of the whole thing. Nowadays people who live alone are often under-nourished. This doesn’t mean they’re starving of course, it simply means they aren’t getting enough of the right kind of food. I should imagine Miss Carlyle takes very little interest in what she eats,” adds Doctor Berry thoughtfully.

  “She’s more interested in food for the mind,” I suggest. Doctor Berry laughs. “No doubt that’s true; but the older I get the more I realise that you can’t separate the mind and the body; they react upon each other. The mind affects the body; the body affects the mind. In this case for instance . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a feeling that Miss Carlyle is worrying about something.”

  “Her ear?”

  “Yes, of course; but even after I had told her there was nothing seriously wrong I felt she was still anxious. If you could find out what’s troubling her and get her to talk about it frankly I think it would help.”

  I promise to do my best and after giving me some instructions about drops for Anne’s ear the good man takes his departure.

  It is not difficult to make Anne talk. When I go up she is waiting for me, her eyes fixed upon the door.

  “What did he say?” she asks anxiously. “He told me it was an abscess and would clear up in a few days but you must tell me honestly. What did he say to you?”

  “Exactly what he said to you.”

  “But he was a long time with you. He’s just gone.”

  “He was explaining about the drops for your ear.”

  “Oh dear!” exclaims poor Anne. “What a nuisance I am! You shouldn’t have brought me here! I can’t help fussing. Supposing it affects my hearing? A school-mistress must be able to hear. If I can’t go on teaching what will become of me? There is no other work I could do.”

  I sit down upon the bed and look at her. Perhaps it is natural that I should be reminded of Betty, for this is Betty’s bed, but there is more to it than that. Anne’s eyes are the same bright-blue as Betty’s and have the same honest, innocent gaze.

  “You understand, don’t you?” she continues earnestly. “This queer dull feeling in my ear has been going on for days.”

  “Why didn’t you go to Doctor Berry before?”

  “Because—because I was a coward,” says Anne blushing. “I was afraid of what he would say.”

  “Well, now you know. He said it was a temporary thing and would clear up in a few days.”

  “Yes,” she agrees. “Yes, I know, and I was so relieved. But then I had a feeling he wasn’t being quite open with me and that there was something else. Are you sure it won’t leave me deaf?”

  “Quite sure. I’ve told you what he said.”

  “And there’s nothing else the matter with me?”

  “Nothing that rest and good food won’t cure.”

  Anne sinks back on her pillows with a sigh. “Rest!” she says. “But the Christmas Term begins in three weeks, and I feel so . . . done.”

  For a few moments I hesitate. Shall I tell her now? Shall I tell her that she need not worry about the Christmas Term, nor any other term, but can rest as much as she likes, here, in her own house? Shall I tell her now or wait until tomorrow when she has had a night’s sleep? The difficulty is I do not know how she will take the news.

  “What is it?” asks Anne with a sharp note of anxiety in her voice. “You’re hiding something from me, Mrs. Christie!”

  “Well—yes,” I reply smiling. “But it’s a pleasant Something. You know I’m rather sorry for those children in your school. Can you always tell if they’re hiding something from you?”

  “A pleasant Something?” asks Anne, ignoring the red herring.

  “Very pleasant.”

  “I can’t think of anything. What is it?”

  “A legacy.”

  Her eyes widen and she looks at me with dawning comprehension. “You mean . . . Lorna!” she exclaims.

  I nod, and rising quickly I go over to the window and arrange the curtain. When I look round my patient is sitting up in bed.

  “Tell me quickly!” she cries. “The Will has been found!”

  Wednesday, 22nd August

  Anne smiles at me when I take up her breakfast and admits to having slept all night.

  “It was those tablets,” she says. “I didn’t expect to sleep; there was so much to think about.”

  “There’s plenty of time to think,” I reply.

  The day passes slowly. Every now and then I look in to see my patient and I find her lying quite still looking out of the window at the tops of the trees and the cloudy sky. She does not want to read nor to listen to the wireless; she asks for nothing and her desire is to give me as little trouble as possible. Unfortunately the desire to give me no trouble gives me more, for I am unused to such a good patient (my own family, when confined to bed, demands constant attention) and I have an uneasy feeling that anyone who lies perfectly still and quiet without visible means of entertainment must be seriously ill. Her appearance alarms me too. She looks different. She looks younger and more vulnerable. It is as if her shell had softened.

  When I take up her supper I tell her that I am going to send for the doctor.

  “Dear me, no!” exclaims Anne. “I’m much better. I shall get up tomorrow. It’s quite ridiculous for me to lie here and for you to toil up and down those stairs.”

  “I’ve been a little worried . . .”

  “I know,” she agrees. “I’m sorry to have been a worry, but I’ve had to do a lot of readjusting. I’ve had to think things out and it hasn’t been easy. At first I felt that I shouldn’t accept the legacy. I felt it was too much. I wanted some little thing from Lorna, a token gift to show she had remembered me.”

  “But she wanted you to have the house!”

  Anne nods. “Yes, I see that now. I see that I must accept it because she wanted me to have it . . . so that’s settled. But even when I had settled that there was a great deal of readjusting to be done. All my life I’ve been on my own. I’ve had to fend for myself and fight for what I wanted. Now I can let go. Now I need not worry about the future. You don’t know how wonderful it is.”

  “Perhaps I can guess.”

  “I doubt it,” she says thoughtfully. “The future has always been a burden to me. I tried not to think about it, but sometimes I couldn’t help wondering what I should do if I were ill and unable to work.”

  Anne looks at me and I nod. “Yes I understand,” I tell her. “I realised what you were feeling that day when I found you near the river, sitting on a milestone.”

  “I’m sitting on another milestone today, but it’s a much more comfortable one. I’ve been looking back and looking forward and thinking about the present too. Can you wonder that I didn’t want to read or talk or listen to the wireless! My mind has been turned upside-down in the most extraordinary way. Everything seems different—”

  “You look different, yourself.”

  “Well of course! What did you expect!” exclaims Anne laughing. “I’m quite different. I’m not the same person at all. Yesterday I was the village school-marm; today I’m Miss Anne Carlyle of The Small House.”

  I rise and make her a little curtsy.

  “But it isn’t only that,” says Anne hastily. “That’s just fun. It’s more important to know that Lorna thought of me with affection and wanted me to have her house. The Small House meant so much to her, you see. She loved it.”

  “She wanted you to have it—because she knew you would love it and appreciate it.”

  “That makes me very happy,” says Anne. “Of course I shan’t give up my work. I enjoy teaching and I know I can give the children something worthwhile. Lorna wouldn’t want me to be idle. But I can do my work more comfortably and I can help the
children—some of them need clothes and books.”

  “You can travel,” I suggest.

  “Of course! I can go abroad during the holidays! I can go to concerts! I can buy all the books I want!” Her eyes are very bright and her cheeks are flushed with excitement at the thought of the pleasures in store. “All the books I want!” she repeats in delight.

  “If you go on like that you’ll send up your temperature,” I tell her in admonishing tones.

  “Who cares!” she exclaims. “And you needn’t pretend to be so stern. You’re almost as pleased and excited as I am. Dear Hester, I owe it all to you!”

  It is interesting to notice that this new Anne calls me by my name and does it quite naturally, without thinking.

  “Yes, I owe it all to you,” she repeats emphatically. “If it hadn’t been for you—”

  I interrupt her to explain that she owes nothing to me and I remind her that I threw Mrs. Stroude’s Will into the waste-paper basket. I add that if Tony Morley had not been an inquisitive sort of man it would have been put out with the salvage.

  “Oh, but—” begins Anne, somewhat dashed.

  “You’re a romantic,” I tell her. “You like fairy stories.”

  “I!” cries Anne. “What nonsense! I’m extremely realistic. In this matter for instance; the Will would never have been found if you hadn’t been searching high and low for the Byron letter. It was entirely—”

  Anne begins to laugh.

  “Entirely what?” I ask.

  “Oh Hester, how funny! I suppose it’s my letter, isn’t it?”

  The fact that Miss Stroude’s “valuable letter” does not belong to her at all seems excruciatingly funny to us. Perhaps we are over excited and slightly hysterical, but it is some time before we can control our mirth . . . and even after the laugh is over I keep on giggling feebly when I think of the hours Miss Stroude spent in the box-room searching feverishly.

  “I shall get up tomorrow,” declares Anne. “That laugh has completed my cure. Besides I want to go all round my house and gloat over it. My house! It’s almost incredible!”

  “Do you want it soon?” I ask. “Would you like me to make other arrangements?”

  “No, of course not! I want you to stay here as long as you can. I’m going on with my work and naturally I should like you to be here. It’s completely selfish,” says Anne when I begin to thank her. “If you’re here I know The Small House is safe and happy . . . and I can come and see it when I like.”

  Saturday, 25th August

  Quite often during my varied life I have thought how very pleasant it would be to have a guest who would always be there when I wanted to chat, but would vanish into thin air when I did not. Anne is as near this ideal guest as it is possible for a human being to be. She does not actually vanish of course—that would be too much to expect—but when I am busy or disinclined for companionship she curls herself up in a large chair and reads for hours without moving. She possesses the power of concentration which Edmond coveted when he said he knew “fellows who could read anatomy with the wireless going full blast.” Anne’s only fault, from the point of view of a hostess, is that she does not appreciate good food; but in these days of austerity this peculiarity is not always a disadvantage. Although it is a little disappointing to see her eating the breast of a chicken without proper appreciation it is gratifying to see her eating boiled cod without distaste.

  It has been agreed that Anne is to remain here until Bryan and Betty return from London and, as their visit has been extended, so has hers. Her ear has cleared up and she is looking a great deal better; Doctor Berry is pleased with her—and also with me.

  This afternoon I leave her curled up in a chair and set off to the village to do the shopping. The day is cloudy and there is a definite feeling of approaching autumn in the still, damp air. There are a few early chrysanthemums to be seen in Miss Crease’s garden and Miss Crease herself is pottering about with a basket, cutting off the withered blooms from her rose-bushes.

  Miss Crease calls to me and waddles to the gate. “Mrs. Christie! Why have you never been to see me?”

  “I didn’t think you would want me to come,” I reply. Today I am feeling bolder than usual and quite suddenly I make up my mind to take the bull by the horns. “In fact I thought you would rather I stayed away,” I continue, fixing her with an unwinking stare. “You’ve told your friends all sorts of stories about me—stories which are quite untrue.”

  “I can say what I like,” declares Miss Crease. “I told you that the first time I saw you.”

  “You can say what you like.” I agree. “But if you say horrible things about me you can’t blame me for not coming to see you.”

  “Oh!” exclaims Miss Crease in surprise.

  I leave her standing there and walk on. Somehow I am rather pleased with myself, for this is quite definitely a victory; not only a victory over Miss Crease but also over my own cowardice. I see now that I should have tackled Miss Crease before. I should have walked up to the bull and seized it by the horns instead of sitting back and pretending I did not notice its antics. Like all bulls—and bullies—Miss Crease should be firmly handled.

  It is just as well I have something to cheer me on my way for there is still no letter from Tim. I had expected one this morning by the nine o’clock post and was disappointed when all I received was a bill. The letter may arrive by the afternoon post, it may be waiting for me at The Small House when I return. If not, I have made up my mind to send Tim a cable and ask why he has not written.

  Saturday, 25th August

  The butcher is my first port of call. As has been said before he is a friend of Mrs. Daulkes’s. He has kept some liver for me and promises me a piece of stewing steak Monday, which is exceedingly good of him . . . but I want a bone as well, and as animals nowadays seem to possess no bones my request must be led up to in a diplomatic manner. I explain that Miss Carlyle is staying with me at present, that she has been ill and the doctor says she must be fed up. Mr. Higginbotham knows this already of course—everybody in Old Quinings knows it—but he pretends it is news to him and makes all the proper enquiries. When I have prepared the ground carefully I bring out my request.

  “A bone!” says Mr. Higginbotham looking at me sadly.

  “To make soup, you know.”

  “Why not buy a tin?” he suggests. “Save you a lot of trouble, that would. Bones need boiling.”

  “You haven’t got one to spare?”

  “I’ll try,” says Mr. Higginbotham. “I will, reely.”

  This being settled we chat pleasantly together for a few minutes as is the custom in Old Quinings. It would not be comme il faut to hurry out of the shop without a pleasant chat.

  The door of the shop is partially blocked by the carcase of a sheep, so it is impossible to see out clearly; one can get a glimpse of people passing—a hasty glimpse and no more. While I am chatting to Mr. Higginbotham several people pass and amongst them a tall man in a Burberry who looks a little like Tim. He is just about Tim’s height and strides along in the same loose-limbed manner. This has happened to me before—not once but many times—and occasionally I have been deceived by the chance resemblance. Today I am not deceived but only saddened for how lovely it would be if Tim were really here! But Tim is thousands of miles away in Kenya and the reason for my illusion is not difficult to discover: I have been thinking about Tim so much that his image is in my mind.

  “Well, that’s ’ow it is,” says Mr. Higginbotham ruefully. “If I could sell you a nice leg o’ mutton there’d be nobody better pleased than me. I’d tie it up with ribbings and deliver it at The Small ’Ouse with my own ’ands—believe it or not, Mrs. Christie.”

  I assure Mr. Higginbotham that I believe it implicitly.

  Saturday afternoon is a busy time in Old Quinings; the pavement is thronged with pedestrians and there are a good many cars of various shapes and sizes to be seen. Susan’s car is drawn up outside Wiggs, the baker’s, and as I cross the stre
et its owner comes out of the shop with Edmond in tow.

  “Mrs. Christie!” cries Susan waving wildly. “Mrs. Christie, we were on our way to see you. We’re engaged! Well, of course you know all about it, don’t you? But I wanted to tell you properly and show you my ring.”

  “Isn’t it marvellous?” says Edmond, looking at me with a dazed expression. “Isn’t it simply marvellous?”

  I congratulate them and tell them how pleased I am; and these conventional expressions of good-will are more than usually sincere. Not only am I very fond of them both but I think they will suit one another well.

  “You’ll help, won’t you?” says Susan, looking at me imploringly. “I mean you’ll go on helping? Please say you will.”

  This somewhat mysterious request from a newly engaged young woman is no mystery to me. I am aware that I am being enlisted in the battle between Edmond’s mother and Edmond’s future wife and, as I am deeply involved already and heart and soul upon the side of the younger generation, I promise to do all I can.

  Edmond is now busy putting parcels into the car so it is possible for Susan to speak more frankly.

  “She doesn’t know yet,” whispers Susan. “He can’t make up his mind to tell her. He thinks we should wait till she goes to Scotland and then write. It seems a bit—I mean I feel it would be braver to tell her. What do you think?”

  The problem is somewhat difficult but after a moment’s thought I tell Susan that I think she should wait and announce the news by letter.

  “Oh bother—that’s what Daddy says!” exclaims Susan.

  The squire is a sensible man in my estimation and I am glad to hear his opinion on the subject coincides with mine. I explain my reasons for counselling delay: namely that Edmond should be spared as much as possible on account of his impending examinations.

  “Oh, there’s bound to be a row,” says Susan with a sigh. “I just feel I’d like to get it over quickly.”

  At this moment Mr. Wiggs emerges from his shop; he and I have been particular friends ever since the day of my adventure in the old village.