Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (43 page)

‘I knew you'd done it on purpose,' she says triumphantly.

After walking on in silence for a minute or two, Elsie says the reason she wanted to see me was she wanted to ask me something important – don't I think a girl ought to be sure she really loves a man before she marries him? People do make mistakes sometimes, don't they?
She
likes a man with a bit of life about him – ‘a bit of sauce,' says Miss Baker, pinching my arm confidentially. ‘
You
know the kind. There's a boy up at the hotel, now – why he keeps the whole place in raws. I mean to say he's simply a scream. Now I dare say you thought I was a bit
dumb
– didn't you, Mrs. Christie? Well, I dare say I am, up at Burnside – Guthrie's so serious, and as for the old lady – well, I mean to say she's apt to put a wet blanket on any girl. The funny thing is,' she continues, looking up at me very innocently out of her wide green eyes, ‘the funny thing is, it was just Guthrie being serious and different from the other boys that made me take to him I was potty about him, you know but I mean to say it would be too much of a good thing if you couldn't ever have a bit of fun.'

I have never liked Elsie Baker so much as I do at this moment I feel a strange affection towards her. She is being absolutely sincere with me – this is the real Elsie bereft of all her shams. There are tears in the green eyes.

I press her arm and tell her that Guthrie likes a bit of fun sometimes.

‘Yes, but it's not
my
kind of fun,' she replies earnestly. ‘And I don't understand it, and he doesn't understand
my
kind of fun. And I mean to say we wouldn't be happy together, I know we wouldn't,' says the real Elsie, now weeping openly into a pale-pink handkerchief, which fills the air with exotic perfume.

I squeeze her arm again –it is so difficult to know what to say, and I am so terrified of saying the wrong thing.

‘You don't think I'm silly?' she asks.

‘I think you are very wise,' I reply comfortingly. ‘One of the most important things in married life is to understand each other's fun.'

Elsie scrubs her eyes, and looks up at me earnestly. ‘I do hope you're happily married,' she says.

I forgive the unpardonable sin, because she is ignorant of her transgression, and reply that I am. ‘Tim and I like the same kind of fun, we do the silliest things together – '

She squeezes my arm. ‘I do love you,' she says, just as Betty might say it. We walk on in amicable silence.

‘D'you think Guthrie will be awfully cut up?' she asks at last. This is dangerous ground; I search for some noncommittal reply, and murmur that he will get over it in time.

‘Life
is
sad, isn't it?' she says with a sigh. ‘I mean to say you can't
help
hurting people, can you? You can't sacrifice yourself for another person – at least it wouldn't be any good, not if we weren't going to be happy.'

‘No good at all,' I reply fervently.

‘I'm glad you think it wouldn't be any good – I mean to say I do want you to see my side. I wish you could meet Stuart sometime,' she continues, brightening a little. ‘You'd like Stuart, Mrs. Christie, I know you would. He'd have you in raws. Why, I'm quite sore today after the way he had me in raws last night. I mean to say I do like a good laugh, don't
you
? Oh dear, I wish you could see his take offs; he's as good as a pantomime, he is really.'

This description has a familiar sound, and I feel fairly certain that Elsie's new friend must be the gentleman who made such an impression upon Mrs. McTurk. I enquire tactfully as to his identity and am confirmed in my suspicion.

‘Yes, that's him,' Elsie says. ‘Mr. Stuart Thompson – oh, he
is
a scream! He's taking Dad and I to Inverness this afternoon to see Charlie Lloyd in
I Take the Cake
. Have you ever seen it, Mrs. Christie?'

‘It sounds very funny, but I thought you were coming to tea at Burnside.'

‘Oh, that's just it,' Elsie says unblushingly. ‘You see it would be a bit awkward for me, wouldn't it? I mean
you
could tell Guthrie I'm not coming.'

I suggest she should tell Guthrie herself but Elsie says I could do it better. ‘You don't need to tell him where I've gone,' she points out. ‘Just say I'm not coming, and that'll let him down gradually – I mean to say he'll soon find out about Stuart, and Guthrie isn't the kind to be a nuisance.'

I realise at once that my companion has had some experience in being ‘off with the old love', but that her technique differs considerably from the advice of the adage. In fact, the strange creature uses the ‘new love' as a kind of bootjack.

Betty is waiting for us on the crest of the hill. ‘How slow you walk!' she says. ‘This hoop's no good, I can't bowl it over the stones. I wish I had bought that ball, and then Annie and me could have played catches with it. D'you think if we went back now the girl would let me change it?'

I reply that I am quite sure she would
not
, and that we shall be late for lunch unless we hurry.

‘Why aren't you hurrying then?' Betty says reproachfully. ‘Is Miss Baker coming to lunch with us?'

Miss Baker says she must go home to her father, and she is going to Inverness this afternoon to see a talkie. Upon which Betty exclaims rapturously, ‘Oh, how lovely! Can I come too? Is Guthrie going? Oh, do say I can come.'

I entice my daughter away by all sorts of rash promises, and we wend our way homewards.

‘You might have let me go,' Betty points out. ‘She'd have
had
to take me if you said I could, whether she wanted to or not.'

‘But you wouldn't want to go unless she wanted you,' I suggest, somewhat taken aback at this strange point of view.

‘Of course I wanted to go,' replies Betty firmly.

Lunch has begun, and Betty and I slip into our places, feeling rather guilty. Mrs. Loudon smiles encouragingly and asks if we have had a nice walk.

‘It was lovely,' says Betty. ‘I bought a hoop, but it wouldn't bowl properly over the stones, so now I wish I hadn't.'

‘I suppose it was the hoop that made you so late,' suggests Guthrie teasingly.

‘Oh, no, it was because Mummie and Miss Baker walked so slow – Miss Baker was there, you know. She's going to Inverness this afternoon to see a talkie. I wish
we
could go to Inverness,' says my irrepressible daughter, hopefully.

Guthrie looks rather puzzled. ‘But Miss Baker is coming here to tea.'

‘Oh no, she's not,' replies Betty confidently. ‘She's going to Inverness – isn't she, Mummie?'

I had intended to give Guthrie the message in private, but perhaps this is the best way after all. At any rate he can ask for no details with the glare of the limelight upon him. Thus reflecting I confirm Betty's information.

Everyone looks surprised.

The advent of the postman turns the conversation into other channels. I open a letter from Bryan's headmaster and find that it contains the distressing news that my son has developed chicken pox.

This disaster is received by my companions in various ways. Betty continues to absorb apple tart quite undismayed by her brother's misfortune.

‘Poor lad!' says Mrs. Loudon sympathetically. ‘How will he have got that, I wonder.'

‘Chicken pox is nothing,' Guthrie remarks comfortingly. ‘Just an excuse for a slack, and lots of fun in the san. I remember when I had chicken pox we had the time of our young lives '

‘Chicken pox!' exclaims Mrs. Falconer. ‘Us girls all had chicken pox together in November 1900 or it may have been 1901. I was quite grown up, and I remember being very distressed in case it should leave holes and spoil my appearance. It
must
have been in November, because I remember distinctly us looking out of the window with our spotty faces to see Papa and Edward letting off the fireworks in the garden for Guy Fawkes or of course it
may
have been for the relief of Mafeking and not for Guy Fawkes at all. At any rate Alice caught a severe cold from being out of bed and not putting on her bedroom slippers. You remember what severe colds Alice used to get, Elspeth? Papa always said if you
breathed
too hard near Alice she got cold at once. That was just dear Papa's fun, of course, because a person breathing near you could not possibly give you cold. I always say if you tie a silk handkerchief round your head at night it prevents you from taking cold. Have you ever tried that, Elspeth? It is a remarkable preventative, but it
must
be silk, of course.'

‘I scarcely ever take cold,' says Mrs. Loudon shortly.

‘How fortunate you are!' exclaims her cousin. ‘Isn't she fortunate, Mrs. Christie? A cold in the head is such a disfiguring complaint, and nobody is the least sympathetic. I declare I would rather have appendicitis than a cold in the head.'

‘Bryan has colds too,' says Betty suddenly. ‘Doesn't he, Mummie? And now he's got chicken pox – what is chicken pox like? Is it like a cold?'

‘Chicken pox is spots,' declares Mrs. Falconer. She takes a deep breath, and is about to elaborate the theme, but Betty is too quick for her.

‘I had spots at Kiltwinkle,' she says breathlessly, ‘and Mummie thought it was measles, but the doctor said it was indirections of diet. Did you ever have indirections of diet, Guthrie?'

Guthrie says, ‘Frequently, after a heavy night at sea.'

‘It's horrid, isn't it? Bryan
never
has it, but then, of course, he's older than me. Sometimes he's five years older than me, and sometimes only four.'

Guthrie asks in pardonable surprise how this thing can be, whereupon Betty explains kindly.

‘Well, you see,' she says, ‘he used to be eleven, when I was six, and then I had a birthday that made me seven, but Bryan's still only eleven, so he's only four years older than me now.'

After a moment's thought Guthrie says that he sees.

All this has little bearing on poor Bryan's misfortune, but when we have finished lunch and are taking coffee on the veranda, Mrs. Loudon returns to the subject and makes sympathetic enquiries about his condition. I answer them from the meagre information contained in Mr. Parker's letter.

‘Did you say he was at Nearhampton School?' cries Mrs. Falconer, pouncing suddenly on the name like a kitten on a ball of wool. ‘How very strange! That is where the Anstruthers' boy is at school I always thought it such a funny name. You remember Frances Anstruther, Elspeth? This is her grandson, of course such a charming boy I saw him once when he was two years old, and he was very big for his age. I must really write to Frances and tell her about it. What a strange coincidence!'

Mrs. Loudon and I discuss the Anstruthers under cover of Mrs. Falconer's flow of talk. She is completely wound up, and seems quite oblivious of the fact that nobody is listening to her.

‘I used to know Frances Anstruther well,' Mrs. Loudon says. ‘We were real friends at one time, and then, quite suddenly, the pith seemed to go out of our friendship, and we drifted apart – perhaps you're too young to understand and now if we meet it's just for the sake of what was, and to repeat, and to remember.'

I tell her that I do understand, and that I know Mrs. Anstruther quite well and am suddenly aghast at the lie. How do I know her? We have met quite frequently, it is true, and discussed the weather, and servants, and the merits and demerits of Nearhampton School. Well, this is one way of knowing a person, I suppose; to know the outline, not the detail; to sit on the veranda and look at the contour of the hill that shoulder, such a jagged shoulder it looks, running down steeply into the silver water of the loch. I know Mrs. Anstruther in that way – just a few jags, sticking up into the blue sky, just a rounded piece of hill with a few pine-trees on it. Some day I may climb the hill and feel the smoothness of the jagged rocks, and find a piece of bog-myrtle in a crevice, or move a stone and see the ants and beetles wriggling amongst the pale roots of grass.

‘Dreaming again, Hester?' says Mrs. Loudon, and I can see her smiling at me behind her glasses. ‘What a dreamer the girl is, to be sure.'

‘ – but in those days,' says Mrs. Falconer, evidently finishing a long and complicated story about her girlhood, ‘in those days nobody talked about being happy, like they do now – nobody minded whether children were happy, the really important thing was that they should be good. But I really think that people were just as happy as they are now, only they never thought about whether they were or not.'

Fourteenth June

I receive a letter from Tim at breakfast-time, saying that he will travel north on Thursday night, and arrive at Avielochan some time on Friday. This is thrilling news. Mrs. Loudon is delighted too, and says she knew the man would come, and she thinks we had better have another dinner party for him, and asks the MacQuills this time, and perhaps the Farquhars from the Hall.

‘I suppose you'll have no further use for
us
after Friday,' Guthrie says, looking up from a plate piled with bacon, and running with tomato juice. ‘Once that husband of yours is here, we lesser mortals will have to take a back seat.'