Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (24 page)

I realise after he has gone that I have not half thanked him for what he has done – what a narrow escape we have had!

Tim returns at teatime and is amazed to hear of Major Morley's visit and the news brought by him, and agrees with me that it is frightfully decent of him to take so much trouble. Tim seems even more surprised than I was, and says several times over that he never thought Morley would have bothered himself about a thing like that, and he must write and thank the old josser. We agree that there is no need to waste any sympathy on the Watts; Nora will probably enjoy India, and, having no children, they can go abroad without tearing their hearts to bits and leaving large pieces behind.

The subject is still under discussion when Mrs. Loudon is announced. She refuses to partake of tea and says she just came in to tell us about an idea which has occurred to her. Why not sublet Loanhead to her friends? They are careful bodies and will do the house no harm being free from young children and dogs, those perennial sources of anxiety to the owners of houses. Can see that Tim is impressed with her forceful and businesslike manner, and will probably allow her friends to have the house, in spite of his prejudice against subletting. She assumes the whole thing is settled which is much the best way with Tim and goes on to say that Betty and I are to come and stay with her at Avielochan for the first fortnight in June while Tim goes south and arranges about a house at Biddington. Tim is not quite so cheerful about this suggestion, and asks pathetically what Mrs. Loudon thinks will happen to
him
, alone at Biddington. Mrs. Loudon replies that she has heard there are places called barracks where single men may dwell in comfort and security. Tim says there are also places called prisons where an equal degree of comfort and security may be found. ‘Hoots man!' retorts Mrs. Loudon, ‘Can you not see the lassie needs a wee rest from housekeeping? Away south with you and find a house.'

Tim takes this ordering of his affairs with surprising meekness. I think he is slightly dazed at the swift movement of events and the rapid change of outlook when he imagined himself securely settled in his job. But, whatever the cause, the whole affair is cut and dried before we have time to find any more objections.

I decide in my own mind that if there is any talk of greasing Cassandra I will give up my visit to Mrs. Loudon, although the idea is vastly attractive not only because I am longing to see the Highlands so vividly described by my prospective hostess, but also on account of Mrs. Loudon herself, whose sincerity and outspokenness are after my own heart. I discover, however, that Tim is not nearly so dejected as he pretends at the prospect of a fortnight in Mess. There will be threads to gather up after two months' absence from the battalion, and he can gather them more easily if he is on the spot, and it will be rather jolly to see all the old faces again, to command a company, and to lord it over the captains.

The evening passes swiftly with discussions about our plans. We shall have to borrow money from the bank as the recent move has swallowed up our tiny nest egg, but this is less worrying than it might be owing to Tim's rise in pay. Tim will go south in Cassandra, and deposit Bryan at school. Cook is leaving anyway, and Maggie can stay on with the new tenants, while Annie comes with us to Avielochan to look after Betty. Everything seems to fit like a well-made jigsaw puzzle. How lovely it will be to have a rest from all the small household worries which afflict the just and to wander through the pine forests on the hillsides which Mrs. Loudon has made so real to me and, after that, Biddington to look forward to.

Am just writing up my diary by the window it is still quite light though after ten o'clock. Tim is standing on the garden path with his hands in his pockets, smoking his bedtime pipe the smoke hangs in the air in a blue cloud, and drifts up to my nostrils with the mellow tang which seems so much a part of Tim. He is so deep in thought that I cannot resist having a shot at him with my bedroom slipper, and by great good luck manage to hit him on the head. He picks it up and throws it back at me in an instant. I make a grab for it but the wretched thing falls into the balcony outside my window, and I have to lean halfway out of the window to get it. ‘Don't fall out, you ass!' says Tim, chuckling.

At this moment I look up and see the Man Who Lives Next Door standing on his doorstep watching my antics, and disapproving (I feel sure) of my flowered-silk dressing gown. Probably his own wife wears one of red flannel, and most certainly has never been seen leaning out of the window in it – The Awful Carrying On of Those Army People – he is thinking.

I dive backwards into my room and pull the curtains, and Tim comes galloping up the stairs to see what on earth is the matter. Of course, I throw a pillow at him, which catches him fair and square and nearly takes his breath away. After that he seizes me round the waist and we waltz madly round the room.

Feel ten years younger after this absurd performance, and decide that I don't care a button what the Man Who Lives Next Door thinks of me – these little idiocies are the salt of life.

June

First June

The morning dawns bright and warm, sunshine falls in golden swathes on the faded carpets of Loanhead. The house is filled with the bustle of departure. Gloom descends upon me as I dress, and I follow Tim to the bathroom where he is shaving to tell him that I wish I were going south with him.

‘Well, you can't get out of it
now
,' he replies, scraping fiercely at his chin. ‘Besides, you need a spot of leave and you're sure to enjoy it when you get there. I only wish
I
had a chance of spending a fortnight in the Highlands. You can think of me grilling in the heat at Biddington and toiling and moiling to get my company into trim I bet that ass Neil Watt has made a complete hash of it while I've been away.'

I am in no whit comforted by the conversation. Of course I have been looking forward to my visit to the Highlands, but the scattering of my family fills me with sadness and a strange fear. Soon we shall be hundreds of miles apart Tim at Biddington with the regiment, Bryan at school, and Betty and I with Mrs. Loudon at Avielochan.

A letter in Mrs. Loudon's firm hand is waiting for me on the breakfast table – perhaps it is to say she cannot have us after all. This would have been a disaster yesterday, but today it would be a reprieve. I scan it eagerly, and find that it is no reprieve, but merely confirmation of exile. In other words an itinerary of our journey, and a list of various places where we shall have to ‘change'. It also contains the news that Mrs. Loudon's son – a Lieutenant-Commander in His Majesty's Navy – has arrived unexpectedly on leave, and that the house party is further augmented by a cousin (about whom no information is given). The letter adds to my gloom. I feel convinced that I shall be de trop in this family party, and that Mrs. Loudon is now regretting her impulsive invitation to Betty and me. (I am frequently beset with the uncomfortable conviction that people don't really want me and have only asked me from a stern sense of duty. I am told this is really a complex, and probably has its origin in some forgotten episode of my childhood. Complex or no, it seizes upon me at inopportune moments, and makes my life a misery. Often, when bidden to lunch or tea with hospitable friends, it descends upon me suddenly when I am standing upon the doorstep, and wages a battle royal with my common sense, so that I can hardly force myself to ring the bell and enquire if Mrs. So-and-so is at home. This subconscious self of mine insists with devilish plausibility that Mrs. So-and-so did not really want me to come, has now quite forgotten that she asked me, and will be disagreeably surprised when she sees me walk in.)

I point out to Tim (who is now busy stoking up for his journey, with bacon and eggs) that I could send a wire to Mrs. Loudon and tell her I can't come after all.

‘Don't be silly, Hester,' he says. ‘You'll enjoy it, and it will do you good. Besides, where would you go? You know how expensive hotels are. We ought to start soon if Bryan is ready.'

It is all quite true and sensible. How I wish I were not tortured by vague fears! I retrieve Bryan from the garden, where he has been taking tender farewell of his hedgehog, and pack him into the car. ‘There you are!' exclaims Tim, with a cheerfulness which I feel is slightly artificial. ‘All ready, Bryan? Got the maps?'

Bryan has got the maps safely, and is very proud of having them in his possession. He has also got a compass, and explains to me that this will come in very handy if they should lose their way. As long as they keep due south they can't go wrong, Bryan says. I have a sudden vision of the car rushing due south, over fields and through hedges like a miniature tank, which makes me feel quite hysterical.

There is a slight lull in the activities after their departure, and I become conscious of an empty feeling in my interior – have I or have I not had any breakfast? I decide that I have not, and repair to the dining room, to remedy the omission, only to find that breakfast has been cleared away. Perhaps I did have breakfast after all, the empty feeling may be due to Tim's departure and not – as I had supposed – to lack of nourishment.

I pay Cook and Maggie and present them with their insurance cards, duly stamped. Maggie says she hopes the new lady will be as nice (this is a typically Scottish compliment and I drink it down with smiles of gratitude, and shake her warmly by the hand). Cook says her hands are wet, and we had better be away if we're thinking of getting the train.

A few minutes later Betty and I, accompanied by the faithful Annie, are on our way to the station in the taxi.

Annie has arrayed herself in a thick black coat with a fur collar, and is obviously prepared for the climatic rigours of the north. ‘Your face is very red, Annie,' says Betty suddenly. Fortunately Annie is not in the least disturbed by the personal nature of the remark. She replies, amiably, that it's the heat, and I realise afresh that Annie is an ideal custodian for a child.

Our station wears an air of leisure quite unknown to those bustling termini where the trains run southward. The porter greets us with a smile and asks if we are ‘away for our holidays'. He discusses at length the merits of different carriages and, eventually, deposits Betty and me in an empty compartment, with Annie next door.

‘You call me if – you know what, ma'am,' says Annie mysteriously, as she disappears, and I remember – with a shudder of horror – my last journey with Betty, and send up a silent prayer that Annie's kind ministrations may not be needed.

The train is late in starting, having been delayed by the arrival of a large family with mountains of luggage. Nobody minds the delay, there is a happy-go-lucky feeling about the whole affair; the very barrows seem to grumble along in a placid way, quite different from the querulous creak of the ordinary station barrow. I can imagine the engine looking round like a fatherly old horse: ‘You all ready, people?' it enquires kindly. ‘Quite sure you haven't left anything behind? Well then, off we go.'

And off we do go.

Quite soon we are out of the environs of the town; cruising along amongst rolling hills. Whitewashed cottages nestle in green hollows. Cattle standing knee-deep in reeds lift their slow heads and gaze at us with surprise.

Betty eats an orange and discourses in her usual practical manner scenery has no charms for her.

After about an hour she asks if we are nearly there, and I reply firmly that we shall not be there for hours and hours.

‘But we've been hours and hours already,' she says, ‘and we were
in
Scotland when we started so we
must
be nearly there. Scotland's quite small on the map.' I decide that it is now time to produce some picture papers, which I have hidden in my bag to beguile the monotony of the journey for Betty and ensure a little peace for myself. Betty seizes upon them eagerly, and forgets all about the dimensions of Scotland in her enjoyment of the antics of Mr. Rhino's scholars.

We cross a deep river with a rumble of wheels, and immediately the scenery changes and becomes wild. The rolling hills give place to mountains, which stand back in sullen splendour and allow us to pass. The cattle become sheep, snowy lambs with black wobbly legs and cheeky little black faces interrupt their breakfast to stare at the train. Streams leap down the hillsides amongst the rocks, and dive beneath our wheels to emerge on the other side in beds of gravel and yellow stones. The gorse is like a shower of minted sovereigns, flung down with a careless hand as far as eye can reach.

Now the land falls away, we creep along the shoulder of a hill, and a vista of green valley is disclosed. Farmhouses, with their patchwork of fields, are scattered hither and thither, and on the farther slopes of the mountains, a few wind-swept cottages stand amongst sparse trees.

Suddenly the spell is broken, the door of our compartment is pushed ajar, and through the aperture appears the fat white face of Mrs. McTurk. Of all the people in the world Mrs. McTurk is, perhaps, the one I least want to see. I can't help wondering what she is doing in the train, and how she has found me. She must be – I suppose – one of those peculiar people who
walk about
in trains. Why couldn't she have remained peacefully where she was put by the porter amidst her own belongings in (I have no doubt) a comfortable first-class compartment?

‘Is this really you?' she says.

I reply that it is. The woman has the knack of saying things which invite a fatuous answer.