Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (20 page)

Several aeroplanes are now seen which inspires Bryan to announce that he is going to be an ace in the next war. Reflect on the futility of all this talk anent disarmament in the face of the warlike spirit of the rising generation.

Return home to tea, after which we play Ludo until bedtime. This game always reminds me of croquet on account of its irritating character. No sooner have you got your men in sight of home than they are taken by somebody and sent back to their base. When this happens to Betty for the third time she dissolves into tears at which Bryan remarks scornfully, ‘It's no use to try to play a decent game with a girl, they are absolutely rotten.'

Discover to my horror, on undressing Betty that her back is covered with spots, rush downstairs and tell Tim that Betty has got measles and he must telephone to the doctor to come at once. Tim, quite unmoved by this catastrophic intelligence, says, well, what did I expect when I sent her to school? She will probably get whooping cough next and chickenpox after that. Am too worried and distressed to argue with Tim, but reiterate my request that he shall telephone to the doctor immediately. Tim says ‘What doctor?' Reply that I don't know, whereupon Tim says we had better wait until the morning as nothing can be done tonight. If a doctor did come, Tim says he would only tell us to put the child to bed and keep her warm and would probably charge at least half a guinea for the advice.

Spend a miserable evening.

Eleventh April

Betty's spots still in evidence, but no other symptoms apparent. Annie suggests we should ask Mrs. Loudon about a doctor, which we do, and are advised to have Doctor Ewing.

Doctor Ewing is old, but has a twinkle in his eye. He pronounces Betty's spots to be a ‘spring rash', and orders magnesia and a low diet. Am tremendously relieved.

Bryan and I revisit the park discovered yesterday and spend the entire afternoon sailing his yacht – a fascinating sport. Return home to tea damp but undefeated. Betty much better already.

Twelfth April

Sit down after dinner feeling very tired. Tim points out that I have done nothing all day to make me tired (which is true in a way). He continues that I have no business to be tired.
I
have not got a crowd of half-boiled soldiers to plague my life out from morning to night. Am surprised at this statement (as Tim has been very keen on his territorials up to now), but conclude that something must have occurred to upset him, and resign myself to listen and sympathise instead of starting Sheila Kaye Smith's latest novel, which I have just procured with vast trouble from the library.

Tim then asks if I have ever seen
him
sitting at a table with three men, playing poker, with his tunic unbuttoned, and a glass of whisky at his elbow. Reply hastily that I never have. Tim does not seem the least bit soothed at my reply, but goes on to ask gloomily how I suppose any officer can possibly keep his position with the men if he indulges in such behaviour, and whether I think it likely to be good for discipline. Begin to feel that the whole thing is my fault, but can only murmur weakly, ‘Something ought to be done about it.' Tim says bitterly that he dares say something ought, but will I tell him what one man can do against a thousand – especially if the colonel refuses to say a word to the fellow simply because he happens to be his nephew by marriage? Say at once, ‘In that case, of course, nothing can be done about it.' At which Tim replies – Oh – I think that, do I? Perhaps I think
he
ought to hobnob with the men too – stand drinks all round and get thoroughly tight with them. Perhaps I would like to ask them out to Kiltwinkle and hobnob with them myself. This may be a democratic country – says Tim with intense bitterness – but there
are
limits.

Feel that I have done so badly up to now that perhaps silence would be best, but apparently silence is equally wrong – Tim says I am not much help, am I? Reply that I am afraid I am not – think feverishly for a few moments and then suggest tentatively that we might ask the democratic officer to dinner, and Tim make a few tactful suggestions to him over a glass of port.

Tim very scornful of my solitary idea. Thinks it is condoning what is really a serious breach of discipline, and making a mock of the whole thing.

Thirteenth April

Tim comes down to breakfast whistling cheerfully and announces that he has been considering the affair of the democratic officer from every point of view, and that, in his opinion, there is only one thing to be done. Tim's idea is to ask young Weir out to dinner some night ( just quietly by ourselves, I know the sort of thing), and Tim will have a talk with him over a glass of port and put it to him in a tactful way – the feller is a bit of a bounder, but perhaps I won't mind for once. Reply that I don't mind at all, and I am glad that he has thought of such a good way out of his troubles.

While we are on the subject I broach an idea which I have been turning over in my mind for some time I feel I ought to get in touch with the wives of Tim's territorials; it seems strange not to have any wives to visit or babies to admire. I could go and visit them as I did in the married quarters of the battalion, where I was always sure of a warm welcome and perhaps have some of them out to tea. I feel it shows a lack of interest on my part not to make any attempt to get to know them. Tim says it is quite a good idea, but, of course, these people are quite different from the regulars, and how do I propose to get in touch with them. I have thought of this and suggest that Tim should pin up a notice at headquarters asking any of the men whose wives would like me to call on them to append their names and addresses below. Tim promises to have this done ‘forthwith'.

Fourteenth April

Announce at breakfast that I intend to go to Westburgh this morning. Tim in an unguarded moment says that I can have Cassandra if I like, whereupon the children ask if they can come too. Thus it is that I am embarked upon a family expedition when I merely intended a solitary prowl round the shops to buy Tim's birthday present – his birthday being on Saturday.

Unfortunately, we are ready to start before Tim has left the house, and he makes me so nervous by his directions and injunctions that I scrape a piece off the gate. Tim then says I had better not take the car into the Westburgh traffic. What will happen when I have cars moving all round me, if I can't avoid a stationary object? Bryan who is very keen to go in the car replies at – once ‘It's all right, Daddy, nobody ever has two accidents in one day,' and we speed off, leaving Tim gesticulating wildly on the pavement.

All goes well until we reach Westburgh Cross where cars seem to be coming in six directions at once. Cassandra is almost squashed between a dray full of beer barrels and a corporation bus, compared with which a Juggernaut would look like a child's toy. We escape this danger only to be pursued by a policeman who asks grimly, ‘Did ye no' see me holding oot ma hand?' I answer humbly that I didn't, I was so terrified of being trampled on by the bus. ‘Och, well!' he says with a twinkle in his eye, ‘ma hand is no' that big,' and he holds out a fist as big as a coconut. The children gasp with hysterical joy and we crawl on behind an iron girder drawn by three horses which I am too nervous to pass.

At last we reach Parker and Simpson's, and park Cassandra in the care of a ragged urchin who offers to ‘watch the car'. We discover, with some trouble, the Men's Department, and spend a long time there examining dressing gowns for Tim's birthday present. His old one is falling to pieces and this seems a good opportunity to replace it without the usual struggle. A young man serves us and is agreeable and amazingly patient. Bryan and Betty offer candid advice upon the subject, but I feel confident that their choice of a loud tartan piped with red would not synchronise with Tim's mature taste.

The young man tries on the dressing gowns and walks up and down to let me see how Tim would look in them. After a serious discussion we decide on a brown woolly one with lighter coloured revers. Young man says if my husband would prefer a different colour he is at liberty to change it, which confirms me in my belief that he has had long experience in the Men's Department in spite of his youthful appearance.

The children, who have been slightly restive since my rejection of their advice, demand ices, so we make our way to the restaurant where they indulge in large pink ones, the mere sight of which gives me cold shivers up my back.

Ask Betty whether she is really enjoying her ice, or whether she would like to leave the rest of it. She replies ecstatically, ‘I
love
it, my inside is
perfectly numb
.' Upon which I realise that Betty's idea of bliss is different from mine.

The way to the Haberdashery Department – where I wish to purchase buttons, tapes, elastic, and needles – lies through the Toy Department, which is unfortunate, as Betty falls madly in love with a small black china doll. After some persuasion I agree to give it to her. This entails a present for Bryan also, otherwise it would not be fair, and Bryan spends half an hour trying to make up his mind between a small model aeroplane and a magic lantern with coloured slides. He eventually decides on the aeroplane, and regrets his choice before we are halfway home.

Tim is waiting for us at the gate and remarks that he is thankful to see us safely home, and did I do much crashing of the gears? Pretend that I have not heard this insulting question.

Fifteenth April

A glorious day we decide to call on an old cousin of my father's who lives at Pennyburn. Tim says now we have come to live in Scotland we must look up our kin. Cousin Ellen is the only ‘kin' I can think of offhand, hence our decision to visit her. We start off in Cassandra immediately after lunch, taking with us road maps, in which I have elucidated our course.

The country is looking very beautiful in its pale green garments. It is as if a green cloud has fallen from heaven upon the fields and hedges, resting there so lightly that one feels a stiff breeze might blow it away. Cassandra careers along happily. We pass through small whitewashed villages, where ancient men sun themselves in the doorways, and small children disport themselves dangerously in the road. We climb a long incline and find ourselves on a deserted moor amongst rolling hills clad in green tufted grass, and small valleys with little streams trickling melodiously between their rocks. It is here that Cassandra chooses to misbehave herself – there are a few spluttering noises, a couple of misfires, and the engine peters out. We run down a short hill and stop helplessly at the bottom.

I get out and climb a little knoll while Tim tinkers with the engine. I know from experience that it is of no use to offer
help
on these occasions, much better to absent myself while running repairs are in progress. Tim can then relieve his feelings by language unfit for female ears.

From my point of vantage I can look across the valley where the black-faced sheep browse quietly upon the slopes, their paths cut deeply in the resilient turf. A small farm on the far side of the valley stands alone amongst its patched garments of fields – it belongs to the hills, as do the clouds, whose swift race across the sky paints grey shadows on the sunlit slopes. The house is not beautiful in itself, but it is fitting as the dwellings of men so seldom are. It looks utterly fearless of the winter wind and snow, for, like them, it belongs to the weather. Behind the hills the mountains reach up strongly, one behind another, in a mist that is like the suspended breath of sheep.

I feel that Cassandra has chosen a good place to rest in for once in her life. She usually selects a crowded street or a slum.

In a little while Tim approaches, lighting his pipe. I conclude that all is not well, and call to him to come to admire the view which is simply glorious in the afternoon sunlight. Tim says he is glad I like the view in sunlight. I shall probably have an opportunity of judging the effect of moonlight on the same view. From this I realise Cassandra's indisposition is of a serious nature, and the view ceases to allure me.

Tim says
he
doesn't know what's the matter with the beastly car. He has cleaned the carburettor and tested the plugs, and there is not a kick in her. We return to Cassandra and try the self-starter again with no result. Tim says he will walk back to the last village and try to get help; can I remember how far it is to the last village? Try vainly to remember. Tim says, anyhow, that is the only thing to do unless we want to camp here for the night. He takes off his leather coat and starts to walk back. Watch him become gradually smaller and smaller. He stops at the top of the hill to wave to me, then he disappears.

I climb into Cassandra and sit for a long time thinking of various things, but chiefly about Tim. How good he is, and how exactly he suits me, how easily he is managed once you understand his little peculiarities! I have been reading a book lately about a man called Julian Stanley Williams who was spoilt by an adoring mother, and grew up into a most impossible creature, vain and unreliable. I realise what a treasure I possess in Tim, who never looks at another woman, who doesn't know how to tell me a lie, and whose appearance is his last concern. Of course, this virtue has its attendant drawbacks, as his clothes are unfit to be seen before he can be induced to part with them and buy others we have periodical arguments of great intensity upon the subject still, how much better than the selfish vanity of a Julian Stanley Williams!

My chief complaint about Tim is that he does not appreciate me for my best qualities. He loves me – so he says – for my dimple, and because my mouth has a funny crooked curve when I smile, and because my hair goes wavy behind my ears. I would rather he loved me for certain qualities of mind and heart, which, despite my many faults, I am conscious that I possess – but at any rate he loves me, which is the main thing after all. I look back with horror on the time preceding Betty's birth, when Tim was ordered to India and had to leave me behind. How horribly I suffered! It seemed nothing mattered to me because Tim was not there to share it. I could not be bothered to order meals for my solitary consumption, and became as thin as a rake and as miserable as a sick jackdaw. If he has to go out there again I am determined to go too (even although it means leaving the children) because life without Tim is quite unbearable. However dull and dreary Westburgh may be (and I have a shrewd suspicion it is going to be both, in spite of Nora Watt's prognostications), I make up my mind that I shall never complain, not even to myself, for what does anything matter so long as we can all be together?