Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (28 page)

Mrs. Falconer flows on until the gong sounds for lunch. We take our usual places round the table, and I proceed to enjoy the excellent food, which tastes all the better because I have not ordered it.

‘Well, Guthrie, dear!' says Mrs. Falconer as she unfolds her table napkin, ‘I haven't seen a hair of you all the morning. You remember, Elspeth, what a favourite expression that was with dear Papa – I have not seen a hair of you, he used to say.'

Mrs. Loudon replies, rather shortly, that she has no recollection of hearing Mrs. Falconer's father make use of the expression.

‘Oh, but you
must
remember, Elspeth. Hardly a day passed but he would come out with it. How we used to laugh! – ‘I haven't seen a hair of you all day' – Papa had the
drollest
way of saying things. And have you seen Miss Baker, Guthrie? Aha, you naughty boy! – I'm sure that's where
you've
been.'

Guthrie admits sulkily that he met Miss Baker in the village.

Mrs. Falconer laughs. ‘I can't help laughing,' she says. ‘Such a funny name – BAKER – isn't it? I always expect to see her hands all covered with flour, don't you?'

Guthrie replies with asperity: ‘No more than I expect to see you with a hawk on your wrist.'

‘A hawk!' cries Mrs. Falconer. ‘My dear Guthrie, you need never expect to find
me
having anything to do with a
hawk
. Horrible creatures, pouncing down out of the sky and picking out your eyeballs. I once read a book about India which said that there was a hawk waiting in the sky every three miles. It made me feel quite creepy, and took away all my desire to go to India. Snakes I
could
bear, but hawks every three miles – no, no!'

‘Those were kites,' Guthrie says, handing in his plate for a second helping of meringue. (I notice that, like most men, he has a very sweet tooth.)

‘Kites? Oh no, Guthrie dear! It was I who read the book, and you must really allow me to know best. A kite isn't a bird at all; it is a sort of box made of paper. One of the boys had one the year we went to Littlehampton. (You remember me telling you about the year we went to Littlehampton, Elspeth?) He sailed it on a long piece of string. It always puzzled
me
how it stayed up in the air. Well, one day there was a high wind, and Edward's kite went sailing over the housetops. We had a great hunt for it, and eventually we found it hanging on a rope in somebody's garden, all amongst the clean clothes, and the clothes were so beautifully white that Mama decided, then and there, to send our linen to the woman to wash. The laundry we had before used to send the things home a sort of grey colour, and we found afterwards that they were hung out to dry next to the station yard. Well, that was all very well, and the linen was beautifully done, but things went amissing – first one of Papa's collars, and then a very beautiful embroidered tablecloth which my grandmother had brought home from India. It was embroidered with elephants with hurdles on their backs – so quaint! There was an ivory fan as well, all made out of elephant's tusks, but Mama broke it when she was out at dinner one night. Dear me, what
was
the name of those people? I'm sure it began with a W. Elspeth, you must surely remember the people I mean. Papa and Mama used often to dine with them, they lived in Holland Park, and kept a pug. I believe it was Abernethy or Golding, or something like that. Anyway, he was a Jew and very rich. So strange, isn't it, that Jews never eat pork. I'm very fond of roast pork myself, but I must say I find it very indigestible.'

‘Shall we have coffee on the veranda?' says Mrs. Loudon suddenly.

Fourth June

‘Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.'

Guthrie Loudon and I are on our way to the laundry to make enquiries about a garment belonging to Mrs. Falconer, which has failed to return from the wash. Guthrie is acting as guide (for the washerwoman lives in a remote spot, and pursues her useful calling in the wilds). I am to be spokesman, since the missing garment cannot be enquired for by the opposite sex.

I am aware that the garment in question is handmade, in pink crêpe de chine, trimmed with Valenciennes lace these salient facts having been communicated to me in mysterious whispers by the owner. Mrs. Falconer has spent the morning bewailing her loss, so that our expedition has been undertaken for the sake of peace. I can't make myself believe that it really matters very much whether the expedition is successful or not; the Highland air has this strange effect upon me, that I care for nothing but the enjoyment – of the moment and the moment is exceedingly enjoyable.

Guthrie takes up the song where I left off.

‘Wee folk, good folk
Trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.'

He has a nice deep bass voice, which rolls up the narrow path between the trees, and echoes amongst the rocks.

‘It's a good thing we're not superstitious,' he says, when the last echo has died away. ‘The Little People don't like being spoken of, you know. Wouldn't you be frightened if they came crowding down on us out of their hiding places in the glen, and led us astray?'

‘What would they do to us, I wonder.'

‘They would bind us with silken cords, and keep us prisoners for a hundred years,' he replies with relish.

‘Then in a hundred years, you and I would return to the world,' I tell him. ‘I wonder whether we should be old and white-haired, or eternally young, like Mary Rose.'

‘We shall be young,' Guthrie decides, ‘and we shall make lots of money by going about giving lectures, and telling people what a strange place the world was a hundred years ago.'

This is the right sort of nonsense for a Highland afternoon, and we elaborate the theme with a wealth of fantastic detail.

‘We'll start by telling them about meals,' Guthrie continues. ‘People will be horrified and disgusted when we tell them that we used to sit down round a table four times every day and feed in company. A hundred years hence nobody will dream of eating in public. Each person will retire to his room once a day and swallow enough tablets of protein and carbohydrates to last him for twenty-four hours.'

‘It sounds a little dull,' I protest.

‘That may be, but eating in public is a relic of barbarism, and it is better to be dull than disgusting. A pretty woman looks her worst at mealtimes, and a greedy man is the foulest sight on earth. I knew a fellow who applied to be transferred to another ship, simply because he couldn't stand the sight of the owner eating soup.'

While we are thus talking the path curves upward, and there are hundreds of little flowers in the grass – blue and yellow and white and mauve. A few gay butterflies flutter across from side to side, and the sunshine falls like golden largesse between the shadows of the leaves. We emerge from the woods on to the shoulder of a hill – and pause for a moment to admire the view. The air is so clear that the pine trees seem conscious of the lochs, and the lochs seem conscious of the pine trees, as if they were whispering to each other some secret message of their own. A scroll of smoke, from a small farmhouse, hangs in the still air like a smudge of dirt on the blue gauze of the sky. Everything is crystal clear, bright, bright like spring water, like diamonds, like the wide tear-washed eyes of a young child. Brightness seems to me the most astonishing quality of this new world. The brightness of it washes through my body and brain, until I feel clear all through, until I feel utterly transparent, and the sweet hill wind blows through my very soul cool, lovely clean wind. Every branch of every tree has a song of its own, and the note of the cuckoo echoes from the hills.

‘What would you say if I told you we were lost?' says Guthrie suddenly, in a conversational tone. I reply instantly that I should be extremely angry, and cancel his pilot's certificate.

‘Well, I told you the Little People would be angry,' he says deprecatingly.

We sit down upon the brown carpet beneath an enormous fir tree and light cigarettes. ‘You see,' he exclaims, ‘I thought we might take a short cut. The woods are lovely, aren't they? Are you enjoying yourself ?'

‘That's neither here nor there,' I reply sternly. ‘We were sent out upon a definite mission – to recover Mrs. Falconer's – er – property at all costs. I am surprised and pained to find that a naval officer, of your service, has so little sense of responsibility.'

‘Oh damn!' exclaims Guthrie, without rancour. ‘What does it matter about Cousin Millie's pants, as long as you are enjoying yourself ? Can't you see how much more important the one thing is than the other? Try to cultivate a sense of proportion – Hester.'

‘Certainly, Guthrie,' I reply meekly.

He rolls over and looks at me. ‘You don't mind, do you?'

‘Why should I? Everyone calls everyone else by their Christian names nowadays.'

‘Oh, but this is different!' he says, wrinkling his forehead with the effort to explain. ‘You're not like everyone, or I would have done it without thinking – and I've been trying to do it all the afternoon – so you see it's different, and I'm doing it differently.'

‘Well, in that case perhaps I had better say “no”, ' I reply primly.

He looks at me quickly, to see if I really mean it.

‘Guthrie, do you smell a lovely smell of peat smoke?' I ask, trying to look very innocent.

‘Hester, I believe I do,' he replies gravely.

We walk on about fifty yards through a little wood, and come upon a clearing amongst the trees. The sunshine fills it with a golden haze – it is like a bowl of gold. In the middle is a thatched cottage, and all about are lines of rope, with dozens of cheerful garments hung upon them to dry.

‘Why, here we are after all!' exclaims Guthrie, and, as I follow him down the path, bending my head beneath a snowy sheet, and dodging the dancing legs of some pale pink pyjamas – are they Guthrie's, I wonder – I can't help suspecting that we were never lost at all.

Miss Campbell receives us with a natural dignity. She is a woman of about forty, tall and straight, with blue-black hair drawn into a knot at the back of her shapely head. ‘Come away in and have a drink of milk,' she says hospitably, as she squeezes the soapsuds off her hands, and wipes them on her checked apron. ‘Did you walk all the way from Burnside, then?'

‘We did,' replies Guthrie. ‘It was a lovely walk. I don't know when I've enjoyed a walk so much. Mrs. Christie has a message for you.'

‘Is that so?' says Miss Campbell. ‘I hope it's not to complain of anything, then.'

I disclose my errand while Guthrie, with great delicacy of feeling, interests himself in the pictures which adorn the walls. A highly coloured oleograph of a young man offering his heart to a beautiful lady in a Grecian garden seems to claim his particular attention. I can't help wondering whether he sees any resemblance to Elsie in the classic profile of the lady, or is taking hints from the picture as to the exact position it would be correct to assume when he pops the question himself.

‘If Mrs. Christie would just come into the laundry a minute,' suggests Miss Campbell, in mysterious whispers.

We repair at once to the laundry, a long wooden shed, redolent with the warm smell of freshly ironed clothes. A young girl tall and dark like Miss Campbell, and with the same graceful and dignified manner is busily engaged in ironing a pile of fine garments.

‘Morag, would you be after seeing Mrs. Falconer's camiknickers?' asks Miss Campbell bluntly.

‘I would not,' replies the girl, raising her head and looking at us with a pair of night-blue eyes.

‘Where would they be, then?'

‘You might be after finding them upon the lines,' suggests Morag, after a moment's thought.

I follow Miss Campbell into the garden. ‘I suppose that is your niece,' I remark conversationally. ‘She is very like you.'

‘She might be,' is the cryptic reply, but whether this refers to the likeness or the relationship remains in doubt.

The lines run in all directions like a gigantic spider's web. Miss Campbell looks about her with some pride. ‘It's a pleasure to be washing some people's clothes,' she says, ‘and to wash for some people is no pleasure at all. You would be surprised, Mrs. Christie, if you could be seeing the things some people wear. It's whited sepulchres, they remind me of, and others, that you might not give the credit to, are all glorious within. It gives you a sight into human nature to wash. See what a pretty line this is! These things belong to Miss MacArbin, now. They are fine and pretty, but quite plain. I like things to be plain, for they come up so nice in the ironing.'

I agree with Miss Campbell, and admire Miss MacArbin's taste.

‘Miss MacArbin has a lot of new things lately,' she continues. ‘I'm wondering if she will be thinking of marrying. Would you be hearing anything of that nature about Miss MacArbin?'

I reply that I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance.

‘That's a pity now. I think you would like Miss MacArbin – she is a very pretty young lady, and clever with her hands. She makes all her own clothes, for they are not well off now, though they own a great deal of property. I would not be surprised to be hearing of her marriage. It's a pity you do not know her. There will be a baby coming to The Hall,' continues Miss Campbell, passing down another line full of tiny garments, white as snow. ‘I like to wash baby clothes best of all.'