Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (12 page)

No mention has been made of my purpose in visiting the house, and I rise to take my leave hoping to escape before anything is said. It will be much easier to write to Miss McLoshary and explain that we are unable to take the Manse, than to tell her so face to face. Can think of no polite reason at present, but feel that I
could
do so from the comparative safety of Brown's Hotel.

This, however, is not to be, for as I rise Miss McLoshary says abruptly, ‘Ye can get into the hoose on Wednesday, and it's ten pound a month I'm asking.'

Reply hastily that the house is charming but that I can settle nothing without consulting my husband, and that
I will Write
.

The red-haired man looks at me sadly and says he ‘doots it's the r-r-rats'.

I pretend to be in a great hurry, examine my watch with every appearance of dismay, shake hands with my hostess, thanking her warmly for the excellent tea, and hasten away from the rat-ridden abode.

When I am halfway up the hill I hear the red-haired man calling to me, but decide to pretend that I don't hear him. Nothing will induce me to re-enter the ‘Old Manse' and face the rats. A bus is approaching, I wave to it wildly and jump on board. The red-haired man having run after me all the way up the hill arrives a few seconds later, follows me into the bus, and hands me my umbrella which I have left behind in my anxiety to escape. He looks at me pityingly and is obviously under the impression that I am idiotic as well as deaf. Then he bows to me gravely and leaps off the bus as it starts on its way to Westburgh.

Thirteenth February

Visit our Mr. Horder who receives us as complete strangers, and says to Tim, ‘Oh! Ah! Mr. McFarlane, I think.'

Tim replies that his name is Christie.

‘Quite, quite,' says Mr. Horder, ‘and what can I do for you, Mr. um ar Christie?'

Tim suggests mildly that he might find us a house. Mr. Horder calls for his book and after some search during which a lot of papers and photographs fall onto the floor offers us a shooting lodge in Argyllshire with twelve bedrooms. He seems hurt when we do not close with it immediately, and assures us that it is a real bargain at fifty pounds a month. Tim enumerates our modest requirements for the fourth time (not including letters) whereupon Mr. Horder offers us a flat over a butcher's shop with three rooms and kitchen, and adds that the owner is willing to instal a bath should the tenant so desire.

Tim gets up and says that it is no use wasting Mr. Horder's valuable time–

At this moment a young man comes in and says mysteriously to Mr. Horder, ‘What aboot the Mackenzies?'

‘Oh! Ah! The Mackenzies,' says Mr. Horder.

‘The Mackenzies are wanting to let,' says the young man persuasively.

‘Oh! Ah! The Mackenzies are wanting to
let
right enough.'

‘They might try the Mackenzies.'

‘Aye – they might try the Mackenzies.'

Ask for particulars concerning the Mackenzies, and find that their house seems to tally exactly with our requirements, and that it is to be found at Kiltwinkle which is the least obnoxious suburb which we have visited. All this has to be dragged from Mr. Horder, who seems most unwilling that we should visit the Mackenzies, and puts all the obstacles that he can possibly think of in the way of our doing so. ‘And, anyway, you can't see it till Saturday,' he says at last. ‘Saturday's the day, and Mrs. Mackenzie is a most particular lady.'

Tim points out that today
is
Saturday.

Finally, we wring from Mr. Horder an unwilling admission that the name of the house is ‘Loanhead', and make our escape into the street where the rain has started to come down again in the quiet, hopeless fashion peculiar to Westburgh.

Ask Tim if he can imagine why Mr. Horder does not want us to see the Mackenzies. Tim says that it is probably Just His Way. Reflect on the many mysterious ways of doing business, until a woman nearly spikes me in the eye with her umbrella and so diverts my thoughts.

In the afternoon we take a bus for Kiltwinkle, and after several abortive enquiries (made of complete strangers to the district and congenital idiots who fail to understand our English speech) we discover a boy who says we are to ‘Go west for twa hundred yairds, and then sooth up the brae, and it's the second on the left.'

Tim says he has left his compass at home, whereupon the boy offers to lead us to Loanhead – he obviously thinks we are not all there, and is sorry for us.

Loanhead is a square, grey, stone house in a good-sized garden – a great many trees stand about it, and all are dripping wet. Am agreeably surprised to find that the house answers more or less to the agent's description.

Mr. Mackenzie is exceedingly thin with a drooping walrus moustache. Mrs. Mackenzie is fat and florid and inclined to be skittish. They show us over their house with great pride and assure us that they have never let it before, and are only doing so now because they want to travel – or, at any rate, Mrs. Mackenzie wants to travel.

Ask politely whether they are thinking of going abroad, to which Mr. Mackenzie replies that ‘England is far enough.' There is, however, a gleam in Mrs. Mackenzie's small eyes which makes me think she is determined on a further flight.

I have made up my mind that Loanhead must do (chiefly because I feel that I cannot bear to look at another house), but I am horrified to find that Tim looks more and more gloomy as we follow the Mackenzies from room to room, and objects unreasonably to the size of the bathroom, the wallpaper in the dining room, the old-fashioned kitchen range, strange smell in the pantry, and various other details (so different from the extravagant praise lavished on the hovels which we have already inspected).

Mr. Mackenzie asks us to go and look at the garage, so we don our waterproofs and emerge from the house. Tim takes the opportunity, while Mr. Mackenzie is looking for the key, to seize my arm and whisper, ‘What about it, Hester?'

‘Take it,' I reply like the teeny tiny woman with the teeny tiny bone.

‘Leave it all to me,' Tim hisses.

I leave it to Tim, and after some beating round the bush we find ourselves possessed of Loanhead for a period of one year from the 12th March. Mrs. Mackenzie says coyly that she hopes we are not ‘supersteetious', and I realise today is the thirteenth.

Business over, we are regaled with tea and polite conversation. Mrs. MacKenzie offers to leave her ‘gurll' to help us out on arrival, an offer which I thankfully accept. The girl is summoned, and is seen to be young and pretty, except for her teeth, which are dreadful beyond words. She is evidently very anxious to be ‘taken on'. ‘This is me. Will I do?' she seems to say behind the hopefully arranged curtain of her face.

The rain stops as we leave the house, and the street lamps twinkle merrily. Westburgh suddenly seems a friendlier, kindlier sort of place.

I ask Tim why he was so gloomy when the Mackenzies were showing us round the house, to which he replies, ‘Never crack up a horse you want to buy.'

Am astounded at his duplicity.

Fourteenth February

Spend the day in bed writing letters and reading
Rob Roy
in the hopes that this will improve my historical knowledge. Get up for dinner and am informed during fish course that a lady has called to see me. She was told that I was at dinner, but can't wait.

Can it be Nora's sister, the great Doreen McTurk? Suggest this to Tim, who says it is a queer hour for anyone to call, but Westburgh is a queer place and I had better go and see.

Find a stern-looking woman of uncertain age sitting beneath a palm tree in the hall. She remarks that she has come in answer to my advertisement for ‘cook general', but that she Doesn't Wash. Reply hastily that that does not matter at all. Go into intimate details of health and experience with some trepidation, but have not the moral courage to enquire as to age. Cook says she has ‘been with Miss Clarke two years', and suggests that I should ring up Miss C. immediately as she has several ladies to interview if I don't suit her.

This suggestion seems strange to me, but I comply with it and learn that Jean McGinty is quite perfect in every way and an excellent cook. Make special enquiries with regard to her temper, and am still dubious about it in spite of Miss Clarke's assurances as to its sweetness and reliability. As I can find no reason to do otherwise, I engage cook to come on the 13th March and return to my fish, which is stone cold.

Tim asks what on earth I have been doing as everyone else has finished dinner. Reply triumphantly that I have engaged a cook. Tim says she probably drinks.

Fifteenth February

Receive letters from Betty and Miss Hardcastle.

The latter informs me that all goes well. That the weather has been inclement. That Betty's galoshes are worn out. That Mrs. Benson very kindly asked Betty to go to tea, but the dear child did not seem to want to go. That she hopes we have been successful in our quest. That she hopes I will be returning soon, as the servants are apt to get out of hand when I am away, and they seem to go out at all hours of the day. That several of the window cords have broken which makes it extremely unsafe (not to say dangerous) to open the windows – she has pointed this out to Annie without any result. That milk pudding is doubtless very nourishing and sustaining, but one is apt to tire of it if eaten every day. And that she remains mine, sincerely, Greta Hardcastle.

Betty writes – ‘Dear Mummy – Hardy ses I have been norty but she won't tell so I'm telling. Hardy had her sister to lunsh and it was milk pudding again. Mrs. Benson arst me to tea but I sed no and Hardy sed it was rood. I mite of been rooder if I had gorn. Hardy ses my sums is bad. We had dog in a blangit for pudding today. Hardy dussent like it either. Annie is cross with Bollings becos he is cross with her for going to Skottland but I think they'll make it up dont you. Good by and luve xxx Betty.'

Sixteenth February

Return to Biddington by train as Tim is remaining to Learn the Ropes from previous adjutant before he goes. Tim comes to see me off and buys me a
Queen
newspaper in an access of tenderness induced by my departure. Just as the train is starting a young man gets into my compartment. Tim suggests in a whisper that I should move into a ‘Ladies Only', next door, which already contains two women and three children. Refuse unconditionally to change, after which I worry all day in case anything should happen to Tim while I am away (he might be run over, or poisoned, or die of pneumonia – knowing the traffic in the streets, the food at Brown's Hotel, and the peculiar climate of the neighbourhood, all three deaths seem possible) and I have refused his last request.

Apart from the groanings of conscience the journey is very pleasant. Young man also very pleasant. Discover that he knows Richard – they were in the same battalion in Kitchener's during the war. We lunch together and I find myself telling him about the children. I stop at once (because I hate women who talk about their offspring) and switch the subject to books. We discuss
Moby Dick
which we both adore. He gives me a tip for the Grand National. We exchange cards, and part at Euston with expressions of mutual esteem.

Arrive very late at Biddington Miss Hardcastle is waiting up for me in a pink silk kimono with embroidered flowers. Feel slightly aggrieved because I can't afford such a nice one, but reflect that anyhow it does not become her – in fact it makes her look more like a disgruntled camel than ever. Miss H. says in a mysterious voice that ‘Betty is in bed'. The hour being 11.30 p.m. I am not surprised and say so. Miss H. continues that she knows I must be Tired after my Long Journey, and that it is really nothing serious – at least she hopes it is not.

I realise that she is trying to tell me that Betty is ill, and demand all details immediately. Discover that Betty has been very sick. Rush upstairs to her room and find her hot and flushed and muttering in her sleep. Make up my mind never to leave Betty again as she invariably gets ill when I am away. Am furious with Miss H., but try to disguise this beneath a polite and calm exterior. Miss H. points out in a hurt voice that she could not help Betty overeating herself on cream buns presented to her in a clandestine manner by Bollings. Feel there is more to this than meets the eye, but am too tired to pursue the subject tonight.

Seventeenth February

Lie awake for hours worrying about Betty, but manage to drop off to sleep at five o'clock or thereabouts. Am awakened at seven by Betty bounding into my room full of vim and life, and apparently none the worse of her sick attack. Am delighted to see the dear child looking so well, but can't help wishing she did not waken quite so early.

Betty hugs me, and says, ‘Oh, Mummy, have you found a house? Is there a swing in the garden? You do look old this morning!'

Reply that I feel at least a hundred years old, and that I have found a house, but there is no swing in the garden. Betty's face falls, so I rashly promise to see what can be done about a swing. She is overjoyed, and tells me that I do not look
nearly
so old as a hundred; only about sixty or so.

She then hugs me again and says it is lovely that I am home, and shall she tell me what Bollings said yesterday? Bollings said that the Old Girl had heard about the cheering at the Christmas Tree, and she wasn't half in a wax. I beseech Betty to speak respectfully of the Commanding Officer's wife, and she replies, ‘Oh, but I
do
. I was only telling you what Bollings said to Annie. And Bollings says she was in a wax because she likes all the cheering that's going
herself
. And Bollings says they won't half cheer next year when she does go.'