Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (11 page)

Ninth February

– We visit Munroe and Horder the house agents with whom we have been in correspondence and are shown into a dark, musty office the like of which I had thought only to exist in the imagination of Charles Dickens. Mr. Horder has evidently never read any of our letters as he knows nothing about us or our requirements. He calls Tim ‘Mr. Johnstone' most of the time and ignores my presence completely. Tim explains patiently that we are looking for a small house with four or five bedrooms in the environs of Westburgh. Mr. Horder says there are plenty of houses of that description to be had for about £2000. Tim explains that we do not want to buy – only to rent furnished. Mr. Horder says we should be better advised to purchase a house; whereupon Tim explains that he is in the army and only here temporarily. After a great deal of irrelevant conversation we manage to extract a list of houses to visit and a packet of cards to view same.

‘Depressing feller,' Tim says as we leave the office, and I agree fervently. We repair to the garage where we have stabled Cassandra, and find that her radiator is leaking badly. Speak to mechanic who agrees with Tim that it is the water joint and promises to ‘have a look at her' when he has time. We then lunch frugally at a teashop and board a bus for a suburb called Kiltwinkle. It has started to rain gently but firmly, and I have no umbrella.

The bus is full of wet people with gloomy weather-beaten faces. Ask Tim if he thinks they can possibly be as disagreeable as they look, but receive no answer. Realise that Tim looks as gloomy as everyone else, and try to assume a brightly intelligent expression. We are whirled through a series of grey, wet streets. Tim rises and offers his seat to a stout woman with a baby who is swaying dangerously on a strap. She looks at him with surprise and disgust and accepts the seat without any expression of gratitude.

On arrival at Kiltwinkle, which seems an unexpectedly pleasant residential suburb, we have no difficulty in finding the first house on our list as it is exactly opposite the bus terminus. It has huge iron gates with heraldic animals on the gateposts. There is an avenue of rhododendron bushes, and the house (when it bursts upon our eyes) is about half the size of Buckingham Palace. I point out to Tim that it would take eight servants to run the place, and he agrees regretfully that it is too large. We are about to steal away silently when an old lady comes out of the front door and shouts to us in a deep voice, ‘Come away in.'

Tim raises his cap, and I explain that we are looking for a small furnished house, and that her mansion has been given to us in the house agent's list by mistake. In spite of our protestations we are dragged into the hall, which is paved with marble slabs and adorned with pillars of Stilton cheese. Explain again that ‘Rose Lodge' is much too large for our modest requirements, but the old lady insists upon conducting us all over the house – starting at the attics which would house Tim's company and ending with the cellars which would suit a wine merchant in a large way of business.

Tim admires everything he sees and waxes more and more enthusiastic as we proceed from room to room. I become more and more depressed at the prospect of trying to keep the place moderately clean with two maids. The drawing room is unfurnished and the old lady points out that the advantage of that is we can bring our own drawing-room furniture and so save storage. Am too proud to admit that we have none. Tim points out that the room would do splendidly for Bryan to play with his trains in the holidays as he could have the rails all over the floor and no need to clear them away at night. Begin to wonder if the old dame has bewitched Tim – she might easily be a sorceress with her long hooky nose and bright beady eyes.

We are then taken to see the garage in which the previous owner kept five cars – two of them Rolls Royces. Tim enchanted with the garage. Point out to Tim with heavy sarcasm that we could drive round and round the garage in Cassandra when too wet to go out. Tim does not reply.

Manage to drag Tim away before he has actually signed the lease of ‘Rose Lodge' and demand, as we trudge wearily down the drive (now ankle-deep in mud) what he can be thinking of to consider the house for a moment. Tim replies that he could not be rude to the old thing and that I am always so ruthless with people. I point out that he has raised false hopes in the ancient lady's withered breast, and that it is sometimes kindest to be cruel.

We argue half-heartedly as we plod through the rain until we reach the next house on our list. This proves to be a miner's cottage in an incredibly sordid row with an unlimited view of a red mountain rather the colour of underdone beef ) which we learn later is called a ‘slag heap'. Fat women with wizened babies appear at the doors of the other cottages and watch us silently. Dogs bark and half-clad children follow us and ask us for pennies. The rain comes down slowly but relentlessly. I can feel it trickling down my back. We escape from this delectable neighbourhood by boarding a tramcar which sets us down at a row of villas of moderate size. Tim says this ‘looks more like us', and I agree gloomily.

‘The Laurels' stands back from the road and has a pleasant garden. We are shown over it by a tall thin woman in black with blue nose. She does not seem very anxious to let it and enquires if there are any children and dogs. Assure her that we have no dogs and only two children, one of which is at boarding school. The house seems quite hopeful, and we are on the point of taking it for six months when it becomes known that Tim is an officer in His Majesty's Army. This immediately precludes any possibility of the house being let to us, and we are shown out of the door with all possible dispatch.

I am too cold and wet to be really angry, but Tim is boiling with rage. Conversation too lurid to record.

Return to Brown's Hotel and find a note from Richard who has come to Westburgh unexpectedly on business and proposes to dine with us; but not even the thought of seeing my only brother can raise my spirits. I retire upstairs and peel my wet stockings off my numbed legs.

Richard arrives in a dinner jacket which causes a mild sensation in Brown's Hotel. We drink our watery soup and proceed to order three whiskies and sodas – Richard assuring me that this is the correct thing in Scotland, and Tim adding that it may possibly save me from pneumonia. Discover that Brown's Hotel is Temperance, and that anyway it is After Hours for Drink.

So funny to sit and watch Richard and Tim drinking lemonade that I start to laugh and find that I can't stop. Horrible feeling gasp out that I can't help it that I am so awfully tired – that I shall be all right in a minute – and continue to laugh helplessly. Consternation in the dining room – the manager is fetched and brings a bottle of brandy which he proceeds to pour out for me with his own hands. Am told to drink it quickly – try to do so and choke – all the same it seems to have the desired effect and I manage to stop laughing. I drink my brandy with the disapproving eyes of the whole room and the envious eyes of Tim and Richard fixed upon me. This done I am ordered to bed by my husband, and am quite glad to obey him for once.

Tenth February

Am astonished to find that I have escaped pneumonia and rheumatic fever, but feel that the seeds of some more subtle complaint may be dormant in my frame.

Spend the whole day looking at houses each one more hopelessly unsuitable than the last. Tim admires and praises all he sees, and inspires the owners with the hope that we are on the point of settling with them. Impossible for me to tell what he really thinks of each house, which causes me untold anxiety. Can see myself being landed in totally uncongenial surroundings, not once but half a dozen times during the day. Speak of this fear to Tim en route from a baronial hall, whereupon he says mildly, ‘Don't be a fool, Hester, you don't suppose I would settle on a house without talking it over with you?'

Am somewhat comforted by this assurance.

At last we have exhausted Mr. Horder's list without finding anything remotely possible; we return once more to Brown's Hotel, where I spend the evening writing cheerful letters to Bryan and Betty.

Eleventh February

Tim having business connected with his prospective territorial battalion, I decide to visit a house which has been recommended to us by the waiter at Brown's Hotel. Tim says I may as well see what it is like as it can't be more unsuitable than those recommended to us by Munroe and Horder.

Accordingly I take a bus to a place incredibly called Pigspunkie, and descend a steep hill (locally known as the brae) at the bottom of which I find an ancient dwelling situated on a green islet between two streams, both in high flood (and no wonder).

The bell is hanging from its rightful place by a piece of rusty wire so I knock on the door with the handle of my umbrella, and am surprised in the act by a young man with red hair who asks me in a peremptory manner to ‘Mind the paint.' Stifle an inclination to ask where the paint is, and substitute the question as to whether this is indeed the ‘Old Manse', although I am perfectly aware that it is, having been told so by the baker's van outside the gate.

‘Ye'll be for the hoose', says the young man.

I look blank – but not (I hope) as blank as I feel.

‘Ye're after the hoose,' he reiterates, raising his voice evidently under the impression that I am hard of hearing.

Reply by showing card given to me by waiter at Brown's Hotel.

‘Oh, mphm,' he says as he reads it carefully. ‘Mister McGlasky tellt me he'd be sendin' oot a wumman tae see the hoose.'

He invites me in with a grand gesture and we enter a hall and living room combined. I look about me with interest and try to visualise my own belongings in these unfamiliar surroundings. The furniture is of fumed oak which harmonises with the dark low-ceilinged room, the carpet is in rags – a death trap to unwary feet. A big cat, striped like a Bengal tiger, springs off the sideboard and vanishes under a chair.

I shudder involuntarily.

‘Ye're no feart o' cats, are ye?' says the red-haired man incredulously.

Reply that I am not, but that I don't like them, and add (as I always do on similar occasions) that in this I resemble the late Lord Roberts who was said to have a strange antipathy to these supposedly harmless animals.

‘She keeps doon the r-r-ats,' says my guide shortly.

I pursue this line of argument and am informed casually that ‘the r-r-rats only come intae the hoose when the bur-rns are in spate'.

Fortunately I am sufficiently acquainted with the language of our Kail-yard poets and novelists to understand this remark, and decide forthwith that the ‘Old Manse of Pigspunkie' is not for us. It is, however, impossible for me to escape without having seen the entire house. The red-haired man has been told to show me over, and show me over he will. He is so conscientious that he will not allow me to miss a corner of the house. He ushers me into places which are usually glossed over in mixed company, descanting rapturously on the modern improvements which have recently been installed. He accompanies the tour with a running commentary of which two thirds is incomprehensible to me. I find myself gazing at him with a kind of awe for I have never believed (in my bones) that such a person with such a speech existed outside the pages of Scott, Stevenson, and Crockett.

Make several remarks to the red-haired man anent the extreme age of the ‘Old Manse', and suggest that it must possess interesting historical associations possibly with the ill-fated Mary or with Bonnie Prince Charlie. (Mem. read up salient points of Scottish history as I find I am distinctly hazy on the subject.) Red-haired man does not understand a word of what I am saying. Conquer with difficulty an impulse to shout at him.

Having seen no trace of any living being in the house except young man and cat, I ask him partly by signs whether he lives by himself. He laughs in quite a human manner and replies that he ‘bides with his Anty', and, coming at last to the only room in the house which we have not yet examined, we find the red-haired man's ‘Anty' seated in front of a pleasant fire with her dress turned back over her knees. She is a small birdlike person with twinkling eyes. Find her more intelligible than her nephew. She informs me that she is pleased to meet any ‘freend' of Mr. McGlasky (the waiter at Brown's). (Query – Is this form of greeting borrowed by America from the ancient Scots?)

Tea then appears – fetched by red-haired man on a large silver tray – and I partake of it gratefully, being cold and tired.

I discover that the red-haired man's Anty is blessed with the extraordinary name of McLoshary. We wax confidential on the subject of dogs – a subject of which I am peculiarly ignorant. Miss McLoshary breeds out of a West Heeland bitch, and goes into lurid details of her difficulties in protecting same from the attentions of an Irish terrier belonging to the ‘gentleman next door – a flesher by trade'. Wonder vaguely what particular branch of trade this can be.

Miss McLoshary then offers me one of her own puppies, which, she avers, will grow up into a ‘fine wee dawg', and will be ‘just the thing' for the rats. She has known its father for years, and has known him kill six rats ‘without breath' – ‘I've known him sit twa hoors by yon hole in the wainscot,' says Miss McLoshary proudly, ‘and tweak the r-r-rats as they r-r-ran oot.'

I look at the hole and try to repress a shudder which I feel might seem rude to my hostess. The conversation has made me anxious to leave the ‘Old Manse' at the earliest possible moment, as I feel sure that if I see a rat I shall scream I can hardly keep my eyes away from the hole. I drink my tea hastily, scalding as it is.