Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (13 page)

I ask innocently if that was why Bollings gave her the cream buns, and Betty replies, ‘Oh, no – that was because I made Annie be nice to Bollings, and they kissed each other. So then Bollings bought me the cream buns in a paper bag and I was sick.'

Miss Hardcastle very polite and quiet at breakfast; follows me into the morning room where I am wrestling with the Bills which have accumulated alarmingly while I have been away, and says that she does not feel that I trust her now in the way in which she is used to being trusted. Lady Hallingford with whom she had the Honour of Residing for Six Months used to Trust her Implicitly. But she Feels that I don't Trust her – I give her that impression. She is very sensitive to anything of that kind and would prefer to Tender her Resignation unless I can assure her that she is Entirely Mistaken. Adds that Betty has been exceedingly troublesome while I was away, but that she is aware that it is no use saying anything about that, as I am never pleased when she has to complain of the children.

I ask how she could possibly expect me to be
pleased
to hear the children were troublesome. But that of course if Betty has been naughty she must be punished. Miss Hardcastle does not reply to this except to say tearfully that without perfect trust we can do nothing.

Problem whether to patch up Miss Hardcastle and take her to Westburgh or to make a clean break and ask her to leave before we go. Very awkward to have Betty on my hands during the move, but awkward also to have to nurse Miss Hardcastle's wounded feelings while I am so busy.

Fortunately the telephone rings, so decision can be put aside for the moment. It is Nora to ask how I like Westburgh.

Nineteenth February

Am summoned to the kitchen to comfort Katie who has been insulted by the butcher's boy. Find Katie in tears. After some persuasion Katie reveals the fact that the butcher's boy on being asked if he had a tongue immediately put his out at her. Decide to treat the incident lightly, and point out to Katie that this was merely boyish ebullition. Katie replies through the tears that I am right and he
is
a pollution – that's what he is. Take no notice of this, but continue to persuade Katie that boys will be boys and a joke is a joke, and that the butcher boy meant nothing disrespectful.

Katie is actually drying her tears when Betty dances into the kitchen, and seizes my hand, shouting, ‘Oh, mummy, you must come and see the picture of Katie that the butcher's boy has been drawing on the back gate. I know it's meant for Katie because the eyes are squinty.'

I realise at once that the situation is beyond me and retire hastily, murmuring that I hear the telephone. By a strange coincidence the telephone bell rings at that moment – it is Grace to ask if I will come to lunch today as Jack is bringing three Antiquities. On being asked for further particulars Grace replies that the Antiquities have been digging for bones and things in the Roman meadow, my dear, and that I must come and help. I realise that my help is required to entertain the guests, not to dig for bones, and accept gratefully as I feel it will be a relief to get away from the house and domestic troubles for a few hours.

I find the Antiquities (as Grace persists in calling them) seated in the drawing room at Fairlawn. Two of them are aged, bearded, and spectacled, but the third is young and has twinkling eyes and broad shoulders, and I suspect that he is included in the party to do the digging. From the conversation, I gather that Jack McDougall found a Roman vase when his company was practising trenching in the meadow, and that these gentlemen have come from London to examine the site and see what else they can find.

Grace produces cocktails which she assures us are ‘harmless', but mine as usual goes straight to my head and makes everything look misty. The door (which I have got to walk out of when lunch is announced) seems miles away. I manage to find it, however, and am so pleased with my success that I join boldly in the conversation which is erudite in the extreme. We discuss Roman remains (a subject of which I know little).

With the pudding course the talk veers from Roman remains to Neanderthal Man (a subject of which I know less). Grace (who has evidently been studying the encyclopedia so as to have something suitable to discuss with her guests) remarks with great gravity that she ‘wonders what can have happened to Neanderthal Man'. Jack says, ‘What's that, darling? I didn't know you were expecting anyone else.'

The oldest Antiquity whose beard is quite white (or was, previous to the tomato soup) pricks up his ears, and gives it as his opinion that N. M. died out on account of some infectious disease. The second oldest Antiquity thinks he was eliminated by climatic conditions. They wrangle acidly for a few minutes quoting various authorities to strengthen their opinions.

By this time my cocktail has settled down and I feel big and brave and beautiful. I suggest brightly that there was only one Neanderthal Man – that he was a freak, like Mr. S – , and that he probably died of old age.

Suggestion not well received.

After lunch the Antiquities go off to dig and I spend a pleasant afternoon with Grace. Return home with domestic worries in proper proportion.

Twentieth February

Having been invited to lunch with the Bensons on account of grass-widowhood, I put on my best hat, take my umbrella (a habit formed in Westburgh) and sally forth. On my way to the barracks I hear martial music, and stand on the edge of the pavement in company with about twenty errand boys with baskets, half a dozen nurses with prams, and a nondescript crowd of loafers to watch the battalion pass on its return from what has obviously been a route march. Can't help thinking how well the officers look in uniform compared to their usual appearance in mufti. Colonel Benson looks splendid on his white horse. The men are marching with a lovely swing of kilts. The pipes are playing ‘The Barren Rocks of Aden'. The sun shines, the drums clatter, it is all splendid. Feel quite maudlin at the thought of leaving the regiment for three years. Pipes always make me cry, and today is no exception to the rule.

‘Big drum's my fancy,' says a young nurse beside me with twins in a pram.

‘Ain't 'e got long arms?' replies her companion admiringly.

Feel inclined to dispel her illusions by telling her that Big Drum is a very much married man with four children, but resist the temptation.

Mrs. Benson is waiting for me in the drawing room, and we settle down to what I know she would describe as ‘a nice chat' before the colonel arrives.

Mrs. Benson starts by asking me what I think of ‘that young Mrs. McDougall', but fortunately does not wait for an answer. Mrs. B. is of the opinion that she is not quite the right type for the regiment. We have always been so fortunate with our wives, and it will be a great pity if our pleasant family party is to be spoiled.

Reply that I like Grace and find her very amusing.

Mrs. Benson says – Ah! Amusing no doubt. But don't I think that it would be better if she did not paint her mouth that very peculiar shade of red. And don't I think also that her manner with men is just a little –

Reply that I feel sure she means no harm, and that it is just because she is young and pretty.

Mrs. B. says she is sure she hopes I am right and that I shall never have cause to think otherwise.

The colonel comes in rubbing his hands and looking more like a turkey than ever, whereupon Mrs. B. begins to talk feverishly about other matters, and asks how Bryan is getting on at school and whether he is going into the regiment. Reply modestly as to Bryan's attainments and vaguely as to his future.

Mrs. Benson then says it is a pity that Betty is so shy. Am surprised at this remark as shyness is certainly not Betty's failing (in fact I have more often been informed by kind friends that Betty was too forward). Mrs. B. goes on to say that she met Betty in the town one day while I was away and asked her to tea, as she thought the dear child might be feeling dull, but that Betty was too shy to come. And do I think that Miss Castlemain is quite the right type of woman to look after a nervous child. Reply at once and with the utmost conviction that Miss Hardcastle is a most estimable person, and has my entire confidence. (Such is the peculiar influence of my colonel's wife that this is true at the time though probably merely temporary.)

Twenty-first February

Betty and I go to church. On the way Betty informs me that the Carters' cat has had kittens. Leonard Carter took her into the shed to see them and they had no eyes; but Leonard says their eyes will grow. She then says – as an afterthought – ‘Mummie, when we go to Westburgh will you bath me?' I reply that Miss Hardcastle will bath her as usual. ‘But Hardy's not coming,' says Betty brightly. ‘She told Leonard's nurse yesterday that she isn't.'

Suggest that Betty is mistaken, but her conviction is unalterable, and she confirms it with the interesting piece of information that ‘Hardy has got a sweetheart, and he has gone to London, so Hardy is going to London too.'

Meditate during the sermon on Miss Hardcastle's duplicity, and decide that she has really behaved very badly not to tell me sooner of her change in plans. Several things which have happened lately now occur to my mind all tending to corroborate Betty's statement that Miss H. does not mean to come north with us. Of course she need not come if she does not want to, but how much better to have told me so in a straightforward manner instead of letting me find out in this roundabout way. I arrive at the conclusion that the woman is a perfect fool, and that her departure will be an unmixed blessing but I am very angry all the same.

After church we meet Major Morley who walks home with us and stays to lunch Major M. very pleasant and chatty, he is very nice with children and always at his best when Betty is present. Major M. says I made a great impression at Charters Towers (which I don't altogether believe) and that Sir Abraham, in particular, is always asking when we are going back there for another weekend. Reply that it is very kind of Sir Abraham but reflect that I cannot return to Charters Towers for some time as I wore my only presentable frocks the two nights that we were there, and have no money to buy others, the twenty pounds that I won on Fireguard having disappeared in the astonishing manner that a windfall always does.

After lunch Betty follows us into the drawing room and accepts a spoonful of coffee sugar from Major Morley with every appearance of enjoyment. She informs us that ‘Hardy' is writing letters Betty
thinks
it is to her sweetheart.

Major M. says ‘Lucky man' in his soft voice which always leaves me wondering whether or not he is being sarcastic. Betty, however, takes the remark at face value and says that
she
doesn't think he
is
lucky because ‘Hardy' isn't a bit pretty. And doesn't Major Morley think it would be much nicer to get letters from somebody really pretty like Mummie, for instance.

Major Morley agrees fervently, and I change the subject by asking Betty if she has not got a book to read.

Betty replies that she has read all her books several times, and that they are very dull anyway, and will Major Morley tell her a story – preferably about the Sleeping Beauty.

Major Morley agrees to do this, but is very shaky about the history of the unfortunate princess, and is corrected indignantly by Betty at every slip. After she has at last been married off to live happily ever after we discuss in all gravity the gifts that
we
would have chosen from the good fairies. Betty after some deliberation says that she would have chosen wings, while Major Morley plumps for unlimited cash. Personally I am inclined to think that a third set of teeth would be a useful asset (my second set being in a parlous condition with no hope of replacement). Major M. points out that with unlimited cash he could buy an aeroplane and as many sets of teeth as he wanted so that his gift would include both ours besides others such as ponies, dolls' houses, and strawberry ices every day. Betty agrees rapturously and tells Major M. that he is a ‘clever man', which pleases him immensely.

At this point Miss Hardcastle appears and says it is time for Betty to go for a walk. Betty, anything but pleased at the idea, suggests that Miss H. should ‘write some more letters'. Feel great sympathy with Betty, but realise that it is my duty to side with Miss Hardcastle, and suggest with great guile that they should go and feed the swans in the lake at Biddington Park, which usually solves all difficulties. Am particularly anxious to have no scene with Betty as I can see that Major M. is amused at this glimpse of parental troubles. After some argument Betty departs with great reluctance, but mercifully without tears or lamentations. Feel sorry for Miss Hardcastle, but cannot help the reflection that, if she made herself interesting to the child, Betty would not show such an aversion to her company.

When Major Morley goes away he says that he will miss us very much when we leave Biddington, and obviously, for once, he really means what he says.

Later in the day Miss Hardcastle and I have a very difficult interview. I tax her with her intention of leaving us before we go to Westburgh. She admits that she has thought of tendering her resignation, but adds that it is because my manner towards her has completely altered. She reiterates her hankering for perfect trust and once more drags in Lady Hallingford's name, which I find unnecessary and exasperating. She goes on to say that Betty is becoming more troublesome, and that it is because I do not uphold her authority or support her in the way I should. This annoys me excessively as I feel I
do
support Miss H. – sometimes against my own inclinations (
vide
this afternoon). I put it to Miss H. that she wishes to leave for ‘private reasons', and that she should have informed me before of her change of plans. (All this very difficult as I must not betray Betty in case it should lead to trouble for the child.) We eventually terminate the argument without having convinced each other, but having agreed unanimously that Miss H. is to leave us the day we go to Westburgh.