Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (23 page)

‘Your name is Betty?' she asks sweetly. Betty admits that she is correct in her surmise. ‘And what do you think my name is?' says Mrs. Walker Young.

‘I couldn't say,' replies Betty. She has picked up this strange expression from the Kiltwinklians and uses it in season and out of season with relish.

‘My name is Mrs. Walker Young,' says that lady, still in the sugary tones specially adapted to Betty's youth. ‘What do you think of that?'

‘I think it's a pity you're not,' says Betty candidly.

There is an awful pause while I rack my brain for something to say, and finally suggest wildly that we should go in and have tea. Mrs. W. Y. says that she never takes tea so early in the afternoon, and that anyway it is time for her to go home or she will be late for her Bengers. Betty is sent to summon the attendant who has been walking round the garden during our conversation, and we all move slowly towards the gate.

Here we stand talking or rather listening for at least ten minutes while Mrs. Walker Young tells me exactly what she thinks of the new minister's wife (whose chief fault seems to lie in the fact that her hats are too smart, and her tablemaid wears silk stockings to open the door), until she suddenly remembers her Bengers and allows herself to be wheeled away.

Although I have had no speech with Mrs. Walker Young's attendant I feel a strange interest in her, and wonder, off and on during the evening, what her history can be (she looks as if she had a history), and whether she is happy in her present post, which seems unlikely. I remind myself that it has nothing to do with me, but in spite of this her face rises hauntingly before my eyes. It possesses that austere beauty which is sometimes found in Scots faces – a beauty which does not strike one immediately, but which grows more apparent at every glance, and which embodies high cheekbones, shadowy eyes, and a large and mobile mouth.

Feel sure that Mrs. Walker Young is fortunate in her attendant, but doubtful whether she appreciates the fact.

Ninth May

Telephone bell rings while I am in the kitchen, rush into the dining room (where the telephone is situated) primed with orders for the butcher who usually rings up at this hour, and am astonished to hear Tim's voice. Tim having left the house about twenty minutes ago, I wonder what he can possibly want to speak to me about, as I know he has not forgotten his pipe, having seen him put it in his pocket just before his departure.

‘I say, Hester,' says Tim's voice. ‘Hullo – I say – is that you? Well I've just found a letter here from Command. I've got my majority.'

Make sounds of delight and congratulation.

‘Yes, Morley's sent in his papers, and poor old McPherson has gone west. You didn't know him, did you? What? Yes, 2nd Battalion, always has been. Yes, frightfully sad, isn't it? What? Oh yes, he's been frightfully bad with malaria for ages, at Julaparajapore. Yes, frightfully sad. Yes, married but no kids. No, no details as yet, they must have cabled War Office and the 1st Battalion. I say, Hester, you know what this means, don't you? What? Well, when will you learn to take an interest, an intelligent interest in army affairs? I can't hear what you say. Well, according to King's Regs, it means return to regimental duty forthwith. Nice, isn't it, when I've just begun to get into the way of this blinking job? What? Oh, just because the Finance Department won't sanction a major holding the job, a captain's cheaper, you see. Yes, it is rather, isn't it. Oh, yes, we'll have to sublet it, I suppose. Good thing I insisted on that clause in the lease. Yes. I say, Hester, you're not awfully sick about it, are you?'

The telephone goes dumb, and I lay it down with a click my head is whirling with the unexpectedness of the news. Am I sorry, Tim wonders? Sorry to go back to the regiment; to see all my old friends; to take part once more in the amusing dinner parties which necessitate so much borrowing and lending of plates, glasses, and finger bowls; to have Grace popping in at odd moments and asking foolish questions about her coming baby; to see the N.C.O.s and their nice natural wives; to attend the welfare meetings and teas, and to visit the married quarters with their large complement of babies and small children, where one is always a welcome guest. Even Nora Watt appears a friendly and amiable figure by comparison with her impossible sister – even Mrs. Benson can be borne with equanimity.

Of course, it will be a bother letting the house, and moving and finding another house and cook at Biddington, but these are mere details, and the shadow of them fails to dim my joy. Tim is evidently quite pleased in spite of having to give up his new job – Bryan will be delighted for us to be near him again, and last but not least I shall be able to take Betty away from ‘those awful kids' as Bryan calls them. I seize my best hat feeling that it – and it only – can express my mood, and dash out to the shops.

Mrs. Loudon is in the butcher's choosing a gigot with a great deal of discussion and argument. (I have discovered to my surprise that a gigot is merely Scots for a leg of mutton.) She looks up from her task and says, ‘Hullo, Mrs. Christie! you look for all the world as if you had lost a penny and found a threepenny bit.'

Feel rather ashamed of looking so blatantly pleased at leaving Westburgh, and reply that Tim has got his majority. Mrs. Loudon is delighted, and congratulates me heartily. She waves her hand to the butcher and tells him if he has got a head to send it along with the gigot, and follows me out of the shop. ‘It will mean more pay, too,' she says, hitting the nail on the head in her usual forcible manner. Reply that it will, but it will also mean our leaving Westburgh – as the adjutancy is a captain's appointment endeavour to look suitably gloomy as I announce this.

‘Get away with you, Mrs. Christie,' says Mrs. Loudon with a twinkle in her eye behind her glasses. ‘I may be an old done woman, but I'm not so easily taken in as that – you need never try to pull a poor mouth to me over leaving Westburgh. Do you think I can't see that you're like a fish out of water? You never complain – I grant you that much – but I can see through a brick wall as far as my neighbour, and it's no life this, for a lassie like you. Away back to your regiment and your friends, and be thankful. Westburgh's no place for you.'

Since Mrs. Loudon has read my thoughts I admit that I am rather disappointed in my impressions of Scotland. ‘Scotland,' she cries, stopping in the middle of the street and gazing at me in horror, ‘my dear soul, Westburgh's never Scotland! Don't you go away with the idea that you've been living in Scotland. What would you think of a person who spent two months in Manchester and said they didn't like England?'

I realise the enormity of my offence and shake my head in a suitably disgusted manner. ‘Gracious me!' cries Mrs. Loudon, scarcely soothed by my amends, ‘I thought you would have had more sense in your head. I just wish you could have a peep of the real Scotland and makes friends with a few decent Scottish bodies before going away back to your benighted England.'

Remain blissfully happy until lunchtime when Tim returns from his headquarters and destroys my airy castles with his first words. ‘Don't you see, Hester,' he says impatiently, ‘I'm just as likely to be sent to the 2nd Battalion as I am to the 1st?'

‘India!' I gasp.

‘Yes, India. There are two vacancies for majors, aren't there? One in each battalion and Neil Watt and I are available to fill them. Neil Watt has a brother-in-law in S.D. 3 and he's pretty sure to get Neil posted to the home battalion if he can possibly wangle it. You don't suppose the War Office takes into consideration the fact that I have children and Neil hasn't, do you? Now that we are comfortably settled here with a decent house you had better just remain here with Betty and it will be somewhere for Bryan to come to in the holidays.'

‘But, Tim,' I cry, aghast at the frightful prospect, ‘Tim, I couldn't remain here. If you go to India we must send Betty to a boarding school so that I can come with you I can't be left behind.'

‘My dear girl,' says Tim firmly, ‘you can't possibly come to Julaparajapore – the place is in a confounded mess – it's no use you looking at me like that, I won't take the responsibility of having you there. Supposing there was trouble there shooting and rioting? No, no, it won't do. Besides Betty is too young to go to school, and we can't afford it either. Make up your mind to remain here in this comfortable house – that's the best plan.'

It is a horrible plan and I tell Tim so, and suggest – a sudden bright idea – that he should get an exchange. ‘My dear lamb,' Tim says patiently. ‘Nobody wants to go to India now. One wouldn't mind a war, that's all in the day's work, but nobody likes being plugged in the back from behind a bush with no hope of redress – and where do you propose we should find the money to pay for an exchange, unless we rob the McTurks' house?'

Reply that I would willingly rob the McTurks' house or any other house – rather than let Tim go to India without me.

The discussion persists all day and far into the night without any decision being arrived at, and at last we both fall asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Tenth May

On my return from the village I am surprised to see a large Bentley standing at the gate – it looks familiar – I hurry in and find Major Morley waiting for me in the drawing room. So delighted am I to see an old friend that I make no objection when he takes both my hands and shakes them warmly. ‘Mrs. Tim!' he says. ‘This is nice – I hope you are half as glad to see me as I am to see you.'

We sit down and chat, and he tells me that he is on his way north for some fishing, and looked in at Kiltwinkle on the way to give us all the news. ‘I feel rather guilty about this upheaval in your plans,' he says gravely. ‘You see I had no idea that old McPherson was dying when I sent in my papers. The poor old feller had been seedy for so long that one thought he would carry on indefinitely. If I had known he was as bad as all that I would have hung on a bit longer and let Tim know what I proposed doing. It's frightfully bad luck on old Tim to have to give up this job when he was getting on so well – and you just settled here and everything – I feel awful about it.'

I reply that we don't really mind leaving Westburgh, but are hoping it won't mean India.

‘Don't worry about that,' he says quickly. ‘Of course, Watt's been pulling wires at the War House – you know his brother-in-law is there – but he's not the only one who can pull wires. Benson has turned up trumps and applied for Tim – naturally he would rather have old Tim than that slacker Watt – and I went up and saw Jack Darley who is in A.G.20 – I think you'll find Tim is posted to the 1st Battalion all right.'

It is frightfully kind of Major Morley to have taken all that trouble, and I tell him so. ‘Nonsense,' he replies, smiling, ‘I only did it in self-preservation. My life would not have been worth a moment's purchase at Biddington if I had been the cause of sending Mary Pickford to the foreign battalion.'

I try to smile at this ancient joke, but find that my eyes are full of tears. It is such a tremendous relief to find that Tim and I are not to be parted after all that I can't help behaving in an idiotic manner. Major Morley is frightfully kind, he pats me on the back and tells me to ‘Buck up, everything is all right now', and adds that it is all his fault for not wiring yesterday, but he wanted to come and tell me about it himself. He is so nice and big-brotherly that I like him better than ever, and wonder how I could possibly have felt afraid of him as I did once or twice at Biddington and Charters Towers. I feel that I owe him an explanation of my extraordinary lapse, and point out that it was only because I was so afraid that Tim would go to India without me, and that I simply can't do without Tim. At which he sighs and says, ‘I know, I know – Tim's a lucky devil, and he knows it too, which makes it worse.'

After delivering himself of this cryptic utterance, Major M. says he must be off as he is going to Ross-shire and wants to arrive before dark. I press him to stay to lunch and see Tim, but he says he can't possibly stay a moment. Point out hospitably that he must have lunch somewhere, and therefore may just as well lunch here and be done with it. To which he replies that I am mistaken, there is no need for him to lunch anywhere, and hastens out to the car. Hurry after him offering biscuits and whisky, and demanding why he is suddenly in such a hurry.

Major M. takes no notice of my suggestions, but, once in the driving seat, his desire to be gone seems to evaporate, he lights a cigarette.

‘What would you say if I told you I was going to be married?' he asks. ‘No, it's not a subject for congratulations, it's just a – just a question.'

It seems an unfair question when I am entirely ignorant of the details – the nature of the lady in the case and the state of Major Morley's feelings. He laughs when I tell him this, and says that isn't the point. If he marries it will be because Sir Abraham is keen on it – wants a grandson for Charters Towers and all that. He knows it seems an unusual reason for plunging into matrimony, but there might be worse. The old Governor is pretty rotten – Major Morley says – this blood pressure seems rather a horrible sort of thing – and after all what does it matter whether he marries or not – everything is absolutely foul anyway.

Reply if that is how he feels it would be a great mistake to marry, and he had better wait until he sees someone he cares for, and that I feel sure if Sir Abraham knew how he was feeling he would be the last man to want his son to marry. It all sounds rather muddled, but Major Morley evidently understands what I mean. ‘Oh, well!' he says, ‘if that's what you say it's all off – I'll wait a bit – not that there's any hope of anything being different, but just because' – he puts his foot on the accelerator, lets in the clutch and glides off before I have gathered my scattered wits sufficiently to say good-bye.