Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Elise has a palate,” said someone else, and they all laughed.

  “Mr. MacNair has a cellar,” said Elise. She was perched on the end of the sofa with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of sherry in the other. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with colour and her eyes were very bright. Frances, looking at Elise, thought that she was one of the most attractive creatures she had ever seen—she was so beautifully soignée, she was so elegant.

  “He’s got an enormous cellar under the hotel,” continued Elise in her soft, slightly husky voice. “He took me down to see it this afternoon. You’re going to have some real old cognac later.”

  “Heavens!” exclaimed one of the officers in amazement. “Heavens! d’you know what the stuff costs?”

  “I know what he’s going to charge,” replied Elise, smiling. “He was so thrilled when he found that I appreciated the beauty of his cellar and its contents that I believe he would have given me a bottle for nothing. He says nobody appreciates wine nowadays; every one drinks whisky if they can afford it, and beer if they can’t.”

  The men began to discuss the wine, and to conjecture whether Mr. MacNair’s grandfather had smuggled it into his cellar in the good old days when such things were more easily accomplished. Frances was glad that they had found a subject which interested them, for she was so nervous and miserable that she could not open her mouth. It was not until they were seated at table and Annie was handing the soup that she managed to collect her scattered wits and to look at her new acquaintances. They had been introduced to her en masse, and it was impossible to determine which was which. The two majors belonged to Elise and Tillie, one of them was fair and the other mouse-coloured, they both had close-cut moustaches. Frances then turned her attention to the captains, and tried to decide which of them belonged to Tommy. “Interesting, isn’t it?” asked a voice in her ear.

  She blushed and turned her head and found her next-door neighbour looking at her with twinkling eyes.

  “I don’t know any of them,” stammered Frances.

  “But you will know them soon. They aren’t, at all difficult to know. I’m the unattached member. Guy Tarlatan is my name.”

  “Oh!” said Frances. “I didn’t know. Of course, I ought to have listened when Mrs. Widgery . . . but I didn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t know which was which.”

  “How could you?” asked Captain Tarlatan. “We all look alike. We’re all squeezed into the same mould. We’re all dressed in the same hideous garments—all have red faces and short hair.” Frances did not know how to reply to this. She was not sure whether Captain Tarlatan was in earnest or whether he was pulling her leg. His face was grave, but there was a fleeting twinkle in his grey eyes. She was still frightened and nervous, for she had scarcely ever spoken to a man in her life.

  “The garments make it more difficult,” he continued, after waiting vainly for some reaction to his words. “If you had seen us attired for golf you would have had less difficulty in disentangling our personalities, for they would have been expressed in our choice of clothes. Harris for me, of course, with a plain Shetland pullover. Grey flannel bags of indeterminate shape for the much-married Liston. The Lobster is always neat, and Midgey is invariably gaudy.”

  He paused again, but Frances was still inarticulate.

  “Difficult for you,” he said in a thoughtful voice. “Extremely trying for you to be plunged into a sort of family party without any preparation. Elise should have given you a short résumé of our careers, an exposé of our characters. She didn’t do that, I suppose?”

  “No,” said Frances.

  “Tommy might have done you some thumbnail sketches of us—she’s rather good at it. Have you seen any of her things?”

  “No,” said Frances.

  “Get her to show them to you. They will be a great help in introducing the regiment. She has us all taped. The only person who is safe from Tommy’s somewhat malicious pencil is Midgey Widgey himself. She can’t draw him—or says she can’t—yet to a casual beholder his features seem to offer scope to a caricaturist. Don’t you think so, Miss Field? Add a trifle more hook to his nose and give his lips a slight twist, put rings in his ears and a bloody scarf round his brow, and you have a pirate chief.”

  Tommy’s husband was dark—so dark that he had a slightly foreign appearance. He was very good-looking in his own way, but Frances saw quite well what her companion meant; there was something lawless and ruthless about him . . . it was something in the curl of his nostrils, in his flashing dark eyes.

  “Yes,” said Frances a trifle breathlessly. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “The mousy-haired major is Liston,” continued Captain Tarlatan. “I suppose that’s why he’s usually known as Mouse. And the fourth member of the party—he should have come first, because he’s the senior major—is Ned Crabbe, one of the best fellows you could meet in a day’s march.”

  Frances was feeling better now. She smiled at her companion and said: “Thank you. It makes a difference knowing who they are.”

  The conversation had now become general, and Tommy was holding the floor. She was elaborating her fairy story about the Princess Carginamel and every one was listening.

  “She was a very clever princess,” declared Tommy. “She ran her kingdom awfully well. It was a benevolent autocracy.”

  “That’s a good one, Tommy!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Tommy agreed. “She made all the laws and tried all the criminals herself. That kept her pretty busy, of course, but she was never late for anything. She—”

  There was a storm of protest at this point in the narrative—it was led by the three husbands.

  “She wasn’t human,” Major Liston declared.

  “Of course not,” cried Tommy, raising her voice above the din. “Haven’t I just told you she was a fairy princess? It was quite easy for her to be ready for things at the right moment, because she had an arrangement with the Time Fairy. She could borrow time whenever she needed it. If she wanted to catch a train she could borrow ten minutes or even half an hour . . . and that’s why she was never late for dinner or for—for opening Parliament.”

  “Could she borrow it whenever she liked?” Major Crabbe inquired.

  “Whenever she liked,” said Tommy firmly, “If she found she was going to be late for anything she just put back the clock. It was most awfully useful. The only nuisance was that she had to pay it back to the Time Fairy, otherwise something funny would have happened to the calendar.”

  “How did she pay it back?” Elise inquired.

  “The Time Fairy just took it,” replied Tommy, screwing up her eyes in an effort to explain. “I mean, Carginamel just lost an hour—or whatever it happened to be—and she couldn’t choose when, so sometimes it was very inconvenient. She would be dressing for dinner and the clock would be pointing to one minute to eight, and then, quite suddenly, it was nine.”

  “So she missed her dinner altogether!” exclaimed Major Crabbe in dismay.

  “I can’t make up my mind about that,” replied Tommy gravely. “I haven’t quite decided what became of her during the lost hour—”

  “Every one lost an hour,” said Captain Tarlatan, nodding his head. “That was what, happened, of course. Every one in the palace was frozen stiff in the same position until the debt was paid. The cook, who was basting the joint, stood with his ladle poised in the air; the Foreign Minister was just getting into his car, and there he was for a whole hour, half in and half out, with his chauffeur standing beside him with a rug over his arm. The ladies-in-waiting were frozen stiff with combs and brushes and powder-pots in their hands; the porters’ children who had been playing hop-scotch in the yard remained balanced precariously upon one leg; the scullery-maid—”

  “Is this my story or yours?” demanded Tommy.

  “Yours, darling,” replied Captain Tarlatan unblushingly. “Your story, of course, decorated and embellished by a master hand.”

  “What was the scullery-maid doing, Foxey?” Majo
r Crabbe inquired.

  “Oh, the scullery-maid!” said Captain Tarlatan. “Perhaps we’d better leave the scullery-maid alone for the present. . . .”

  “Talking of sculleries,” said Tillie Liston suddenly. “I noticed there was a funny sort of smell in one of those bungalows—it seemed to come from the sink. I wonder if it is quite healthy.”

  “Take the other one,” suggested Captain Tarlatan. “Mrs. Thynne won’t notice the smell, because she always uses scent—a most reprehensible habit, in my opinion. I mean, any woman who drenches herself with scent deserves a house with a nasty smell in it.”

  The subject of the bungalows having been raised, the company proceeded to discuss them thoroughly. No detail of their situation, construction, or sanitation escaped criticism; the plumbing was commented upon by one and all without reserve. The subject of plumbing led quite naturally to sappers. Major Liston propounded the ancient axiom that they were all mad, married, or methody, but Major Crabbe disagreed, declaring that he knew quite a lot of sappers and they were most awfully decent fellows.

  “Quite a lot of decent fellows are married, aren’t they?” inquired Captain Tarlatan innocently.

  “Yes, of course, but I mean—” began Major Crabbe, but everyone was laughing, so his meaning was never made clear.

  After dinner, when they returned to the lounge, Frances suddenly discovered that nobody had mentioned the war, and she realised, looking back at her previous conversations with Tommy and Tillie and Elise, that they never talked about the war either. She wondered why it was. They had all sat down by this time, and it was obvious from the manner in which they had arranged themselves that husbands and wives were partial to each other’s company.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” said Captain Tarlatan as he sat down beside Frances on the sofa. “If I ever marry I shall take care not to parade my felicity before the eyes of the world.”

  “I think it’s rather nice,” replied Frances. “They like each other, and they don’t see as much of each other as ordinary married people, so—”

  “The wrong conjunction,” declared her companion. “Otherwise sound. You really meant to say that they like each other because—”

  “No,” said Francis quickly; “I didn’t mean that at all. It isn’t fair to twist what I say until it means something quite different.”

  Captain Tarlatan looked at her in surprise. “Dear me!” he said. “Dear me, I seem to have struck a spark. I was beginning to think the tinder was too damp.”

  Frances laughed at that. She couldn’t help it. “I was frightened,” she said frankly, “but I’m feeling better now. I think my dinner has done me good. It was a good dinner, wasn’t it?”

  “Excellent,” agreed Captain Tarlatan. “It was an excellent dinner, and the brandy is superlatively fine. I feel sure that a little brandy would complete your cure.”

  Frances shook her head. She had been offered brandy with her coffee but had refused it, for she was not used to strong drink and had no idea what effect it would have upon her.

  “Midgey Widgey can sing,” said Captain Tarlatan suddenly.

  “Can he?” asked Frances.

  “Yes, he makes rather a pleasant noise. Shall I wind him up?” and, before Frances could reply, Captain Tarlatan leaned forward and said in a loud voice: “Midgey, I’ve been telling Miss Field you can sing, but she won’t believe me.”

  Nobody seemed surprised at this perversion of the truth, and Captain Widgery required no pressing. He rose at once and crossed the room and struck a few chords upon the piano.

  “It isn’t bad,” he said. “Are you going to play for me, Tommy?”

  “I’ll fetch your music,” said Tommy, rising from her chair.

  “Couldn’t he fetch it for himself?” asked Captain Tarlatan.

  “He doesn’t know where it is,” declared Tommy as she sped away.

  “Bad training,” explained Captain Tarlatan in an undertone. “Terribly bad training. When you’re married you should make a point of teaching your husband to fetch and carry for you.”

  “I’m never going to be married. I like being free,” replied Frances seriously.

  Her companion looked at her in some surprise, but by this time Tommy had returned with a large pile of music and the subject was closed.

  “I brought it all,” said Tommy a trifle breathlessly. “There are some new songs here. I thought someone else might like to sing too.”

  “Perhaps Miss Field sings,” suggested Major Liston.

  Miss Field declared that she could not sing, that she had not sung for years.

  “You can join in the chorus,” said Tommy firmly.

  Frances did not know much about music, but, like most people, she knew when she heard something good. Captain Widgery’s voice was beautiful—it was deep and velvety. He sang Tosti’s “Parted” with such expression that there was a little silence when the last notes had died away . . . and then a chorus of thanks.

  “It was lovely,” Elise said, “but couldn’t we have something a little more cheerful now?”

  “What would you like?” asked Captain Widgery.

  Elise thought for a moment, and then said she would like “Where E’er You Walk.” So Captain Widgery sang it. Major Crabbe asked for “Drake’s Drum.”

  “You sing it,” suggested Captain Widgery. “It doesn’t suit my voice.”

  “What about ‘Pale Hands I Love’?” asked Tillie Liston. “I know it’s supposed to be hackneyed, but I like it awfully.”

  Captain Widgery seemed quite pleased at the suggestion. He sang it extremely well.

  Tommy wanted “Speak to me of Love,” and after some argument he sang that too. Then he sat down and said that someone else had better sing now.

  “Nobody wants to sing after you,” declared Major Liston, shaking his head.

  “Just one more,” said Tommy. “You haven’t sung ‘You Alone Have My Heart.’”

  “Sing ‘Shenandoah,’” said Major Crabbe.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll say ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus,’ if you like,” said Captain Tarlatan.

  “You can’t,” replied Tommy firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Miss Field wouldn’t like it.”

  “But I know it,” said Frances. “I used to say it when I was a child.”

  “Oh, that must have been another wreck,” declared Tommy. “Guy’s wreck is quite different. It isn’t the sort of wreck that you could teach a child.”

  “Couldn’t we have ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’?” asked Major Liston.

  Every one—or nearly every one—immediately clamoured for the song and urged Major Liston to sing it, and after some persuasion he agreed to “have a dab at it” if every one joined in the chorus. Frances had heard the song before, but not until now had she realised its real meaning. She understood it now because these people made the song real to her. It was real to them—in a way it was their creed—and as Frances listened she seemed to see white-clad figures striding along sun-baked streets while, behind closed shutters, the native population rested and slumbered.

  “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.”

  Every one knew the words, every one was singing them . . . except Elise. Elise looked tired, Frances thought. The glow had faded from her cheeks and the shadows round her eyes had deepened. All at once she looked years older.

  “Let’s go out,” said Captain Widgery when the song was over. He strolled to the side door, which opened on to a little terrace overlooking the sea. Tommy seized a scarf and followed him. The others hesitated and then decided to go too, and in a few moments Frances discovered that she was alone with Captain Tarlatan.

  He sat down at the piano and began to pick out a tune by ear. “That’s ‘A Pocketful of Dreams,’” he said. “I dare say you wouldn’t know it. . . . I wish I could play. . . . I never wanted to learn when I was young, but now I’d give a good deal to be able to do it. . . . They’re awful, aren’t they?”


  “Who?” asked Frances.

  “All of them,” he replied. “They want to talk to each other, so off they go and leave us.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Frances, quite innocently.

  He laughed and replied: “Oh, neither do I, for that matter. I mean, I don’t mind for myself. It’s a bit rude, don’t you think—or perhaps crude describes it better.”

  “You mean fading away like that?” inquired Frances.

  He nodded. “I’m here to amuse you, that’s why I was asked. Tommy is always throwing me at people’s heads, and usually they hate it.”

  Frances laughed. She said: “Perhaps I was asked so that I could amuse you. I’m afraid I haven’t been very amusing.”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “You haven’t exactly sparkled, but I’m not sure that I like sparkling people.”

  “I like sparkling people,” replied Frances—she thought of Tommy as she spoke.

  “They’re fun sometimes,” he agreed. “There’s Angela, for instance, Angela Thynne—you haven’t seen her yet.”

  “Shall I see her?”

  “Definitely. The regiment always moves en masse. Already a house of sorts has been allocated to the Colonel and his lady. Angela is the Colonel’s ewe lamb.”

  “I see,” said Frances.

  “You see, but only through a dark glass,” replied Captain Tarlatan. “There are wheels within wheels. Tommy thinks it would be nice if I were to marry Angela, but neither Angela nor I see much point in the idea. Tommy is a confirmed matchmaker, she can’t leave things alone.”

  “She’s so happy herself,” Frances said.

  “She’s devoted to Widgery.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “I don’t think it is—quite. It’s possible to be devoted to a person without being happy, you know.” He hesitated, as if he were going to say more on the subject and then changed his mind. “Shall I play ‘Too Romantic,’” he asked. “It seems suitable at this point in the conversation. . . .”

  He was still playing the catchy tune with one finger when the Widgerys passed the door leading on to the terrace. It was slightly ajar and Frances heard Tommy’s sweet high voice.