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Authors: D. E. Stevenson

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BOOK: Mrs. Tim of the Regiment
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Rush downstairs and try to keep the children quiet at breakfast, which is difficult owing to a fall of snow, and the thrilling prospect of a snowman in the Square Gardens. Betty says it is going to be as big as a real man, and Bryan with his mouth full of bacon tries to say ‘Bigger' with disastrous consequences.

Miss Hardcastle has gone away for a fortnight's holiday, which adds to the hilarity. Reflect on the annoying habit of governesses in general, and Miss H. in particular, insisting on holidays at inopportune moments.

Pack the children off as soon as possible, shod with Wellington boots and armed with a broom and a large coal shovel.

Tim as yet unshaven and clad in a dressing gown, but somewhat soothed with strong coffee is embarking on toast and marmalade when Mrs. Benson is seen approaching the hall door. He mutters maledictions on colonels' wives and disappears upstairs (looking like the Hatter, with a piece of toast in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other).

After an hour of Mrs. Benson I feel inclined to agree with Tim, that colonels should be celibate. The more so as I find I have consented to take charge of the Women's and Children's Christmas Tree and Tea Party, which is to take place on the fourteenth, Mrs. Benson being obliged to go to a matinée in town on that day with her father-in-law, recently returned from Australia.

Accompany Mrs. Benson to the door and find that Bryan and Betty have brought in four friends who have been helping to make the snowman, and they are all eating Golden Sovereign Oranges (at threepence each), which I had intended for dessert tonight. Smile and say that I hope they are nice, while making a mental note to speak tactfully to the children about it after the visitors have gone. Difficult subject, as it clashes somewhat with tenets of hospitality, generosity, and unselfishness which I have endeavoured to inculcate.

Aunt Ethel arrives at teatime in Rolls Royce and is conducted to the spare room, which really looks exceedingly cosy with curtains drawn and a bright fire. Feel that my efforts for her comfort deserve a word of recognition, but none is forthcoming. Remark brightly that Richard is dining with us tonight, ‘so we shall be a nice little family party.' Aunt Ethel replies that she remembers seeing my brother at the wedding, in a tone that leaves me in some doubt as to whether her recollections of him are entirely pleasant.

Bryan and Betty appear and kiss Aunt Ethel dutifully, and accept a popgun and a jigsaw puzzle (belated Christmas presents) with ill-concealed disappointment; Tim having raised their hopes (in my opinion unwisely) of more acceptable gifts. Can sympathise with their feelings when I am presented with a pink silk pincushion very hard – which I cannot help considering an unfair return for a flat black morocco handbag with zipper fastening. Remind myself that it is impossible to live for ever, even if you spend every winter upon the Riviera, and am able to thank Aunt Ethel for her gift with appropriate enthusiasm.

Dinner is a somewhat trying meal. Annie loses her head, and hands the potatoes to Aunt Ethel minus a spoon. She realises her mistake, rushes to the sideboard, and returns with the necessary utensil which she presses into Aunt Ethel's nerveless hand muttering, ‘ 'Ere it is.'

Talk feverishly about the weather, which wireless has prophesied will ‘continue unsettled and stormy', quite forgetting in my excitement that Aunt Ethel is crossing the Channel on Monday. Meanwhile, Annie, who is completely demoralised by her mistake, proceeds to denude the table of cruets and mats before she has served the plum pudding.

Can see Tim looking at me in an imploring manner, but feel it best to take no notice of Annie's unusual procedure.

Richard, on whom I was depending for dash and sparkle, is in his gloomiest mood, his best story having been completely spoiled by Aunt Ethel's inability to see its point.

We retire to the drawing room, and find the fire in the last stages of dissolution. A rubber of bridge passes a difficult hour, but it is not an unqualified success in the way of entertainment, as Aunt Ethel can never remember what is trumps and Richard revokes twice from sheer boredom.

Richard now produces a flat box, which he gives me, saying it is my Christmas present, and he is sorry it is a week late. I open it, and find a large diary bound in red leather with a lock and key. Am overjoyed at the prospect of being able to record my secret thoughts without fear of detection. Joy somewhat dampened by Richard remarking that in his opinion we ought all to keep a record of our doings,
however unimportant they may be
. Aunt Ethel tries to soften this remark by saying she is sure that dear Hester does her best, and, after all, we can't all be indispensable, and at any rate she would be much missed by the dear children if anything were to happen to her. Damned with faint praise I remove myself and my diary to the privacy of my bedroom, where I proceed to write up the first day of the New Year.

Second January

Aunt Ethel breakfasts in bed a fortunate dispensation of providence, as the children are very full of life this morning. Remind myself that high spirits is a sign of health which enables me to bear with them, in spite of a slight headache, doubtless due to a large helping of plum pudding last night.

Visit Aunt Ethel to see if she has all she requires, and find that she has brought her own eiderdown, pillow, and sandbags for door and window. Also that the mysterious sounds heard by Tim and self during the night, and at first attributed to burglars, and afterwards (doubtfully) to the next-door cat, must have been Aunt Ethel moving her bed into a less draughty corner. Express much sorrow and solicitude for lack of amenities in the spare bedroom. Aunt Ethel replies that it is high time that Timothy and I had a comfortable home of our own. Agree fervently and hopefully, but nothing more is said on the subject.

Aunt Ethel then Rises and Descends (only capital letters can adequately describe her movements), and announces her intention of departing southwards directly after luncheon, instead of at twelve o'clock, as previously arranged. Rush frantically to the kitchen to counterorder hash and milk pudding, and to substitute cutlets and mashed potatoes, tinned peas and banana fritters for our midday meal. Katie, decidedly annoyed at the alteration in menu, says that the butcher has been, and I shall have to telephone if I want cutlets.

Children come in with wet stockings, which they declare are perfectly dry. Both exceedingly naughty when I insist on stockings being changed. No time to bring them to a better frame of mind, as Aunt Ethel is sitting alone in the drawing room.

Shortly after this Aunt Ethel goes upstairs to pack, and rings her bell three times for Annie to come and strap her boxes. Am told on enquiry, that Annie is ‘washing her face', so the only thing to be done is to go upstairs and strap boxes myself. Whilst I am engaged on this Herculean task, Aunt Ethel regales me with details of the ménage of a certain Mrs. Hunter, who lives near her at Greenvale and runs her house perfectly with one maid.

It is all a matter of organisation, Aunt Ethel says. Mrs. Hunter arranges every detail herself and plans every moment of the day. Mrs. Hunter never glosses over mistakes, she expects things to be perfect, and they are perfect. (Feel convinced that if I expected anything of the kind it would merely lead to disappointment.) Discover that Mrs. Hunter is – as I thought – a childless widow with unlimited means.

Rolls Royce drives up to the door after lunch and waits for half an hour while we all hunt for Aunt Ethel's bag, which is unaccountably missing. Aunt quite frantic, as her passport and money are contained therein. She pins Tim in a corner and asks in a penetrating whisper how long we have had the servants, and whether he is quite certain they are honest. At last she says in despair, ‘I can't go until the bag is found.' Everyone immediately redoubles efforts to locate bag. It is eventually run to earth beneath Aunt Ethel's pillow, where she now remembers she put it last night for safety.

Annie has had no time nor opportunity to ‘make down' bed this morning, but considers this a blot on her character, and is heard announcing audibly to Katie that she ‘
does believe
the old lady done it on purpose to show her up.'

In the midst of all this turmoil Tim whispers to me that he has just seen the doctor's car pass, and that he is sure to charge double in his bill after seeing the Rolls standing at the gate. Murmur something soothing.

We all go out and watch Aunt Ethel being hoisted into her car by her efficient chauffeur, and wave enthusiastically as she glides off down the road.

‘Thank God!' says Tim devoutly.

Betty enquires in an interested voice why Daddy is thanking God, to which Tim replies with admirable presence of mind that it is because the wind has gone down and Aunt Ethel will have a calm passage.

Third January

Decide to take the children to church. Bryan, slightly aggrieved, says he ‘thought it was the holidays'. Best to pretend I have not heard this remark, but must remember to speak seriously to him at a more leisure and opportune moment. Betty fidgets during the sermon, and asks in a piercing whisper when it will be over.

Grace McDougall comes in to tea. She is our regimental bride, and really beautiful, with that matt white skin which makes everyone else look like a dairymaid. We are all having tea in the dining room, as Miss Hardcastle is away. Children become very wild. They are encouraged by Grace, who rags with Bryan until he behaves like a lunatic. (Query – Why do people with no children of their own seem to think the shocking behaviour of other people's offspring a fit subject for mirth?)

Bryan is sent to his room by his father.

Grace has the decency to apologise, and asks Tim not to be hard on Bryan, as it is all her fault. Grace being irresistible to the male sex, Tim agrees to let the young villain off this time, and accompanies Grace to the front door, where he stands talking to her for fifteen minutes.

I put the children to bed.

Fourth January

Grace appears shortly after breakfast to to ask if I can possibly lend her some meat plates, coffee cups, and finger bowls for her dinner party, as Fairlawn is deficient in crockery and glass. We adjourn hopefully to the pantry, where we discover eight meat plates to match, and five finger bowls – but coffee cups are odd patterns.

Grace says it does not matter whether they match or not – she will just take them. She has brought a large basket (being of an optimistic temperament), into which we pack the loot. I advise her to go to Nora Watt for more finger bowls, as I know Nora has some, having dined there on Boxing Night. (Unless, of course, they were borrowed.) Grace thanks me, and asks anxiously whether I think eight will be a squash in her dining room. Reassure her as convincingly as I can, although I am practically certain the eight
will
be a squash (who should know better than I, considering we had Fairlawn ourselves for nine months before we moved into Rokesby).

Grace then says, have I heard about the Carters? They are moving again. Their landlord is returning to Biddington in March. We agree that it is rotten luck, especially as Mamie Carter is going to add to her family in the near future.

‘I am so sorry for Mamie,' says Grace with a sigh.

Personally I am much more sorry for Herbert. (Mamie Carter is a person who sits still and smiles wistfully while everybody in the vicinity rushes around, wildly, doing
her
job.) Perhaps I am a trifle bitter about this, having assisted in the Carters' last move. Grace – who is new to army life – says eagerly that of course everyone will help, and the first thing is to find a house, and that directly she has got this dinner off her chest she is going around to all the house agents in Biddington.

Feel that Grace is really rather a dear in spite of her enthusiasms.

Sixth January

Wet Day
. Decide to write a lot of letters and clear off the remains of Christmas presents ‘thanks', which have got disgracefully hung up owing to holidays.

Tim comes in, just as I am starting, to ask if I have seen his pipe anywhere. We all join in the search. Betty and Bryan show great enthusiasm, as the winner of the treasure hunt has been promised a penny. Pipe is discovered in my workbasket. Have no idea how it got there, and say so several times, adding that it is curious how a thing always turns up in the last place you think of looking for it. Bryan – who has won the penny –immediately replies that the reason is because you stop looking for it when you have found it.

I return to my letters.

Annie comes in to say there is a gentleman at the door who wants to see me ‘very partickler', and he will not keep me long. She asked was there a message, but he said he must see Mrs. Christie herself, and it was very important, and his name is Mr. John.

Am seized with a sudden and absolutely unfounded conviction that it is the great Augustus himself who has come to beseech me to sit for him having seen me dashing about Biddington on my bicycle and taken an unaccountable fancy to the shape of my face. Or perhaps he wishes to paint Betty, whose colouring has been admired by various artistic friends.

Ask Annie rather shortly why she has not shown Mr. John into the drawing room. She replies that he ‘does not look that kind of gentleman', but adds that she will if I like. (Query – Is this Annie's reaction to the artistic note in sartorial fashion?)

Rush wildly to the front door, where I spend half an hour persuading Mr. John that I do not want a vacuum cleaner, and that I do not want a demonstration of a vacuum cleaner on my own stair carpet, even although – as he points out – I should thereby get them ‘beautifully cleaned for nothing'.

BOOK: Mrs. Tim of the Regiment
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