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Authors: D. E. Stevenson

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BOOK: Mrs. Tim of the Regiment
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Loud cries of ‘They're off' cut short my meditations, and the horses sweep off down a field. Cries of ‘Black Witch – Black Witch leading'. See a huge black mare in front. Horses disappear over a hedge.

Major Morley is standing by himself with field glasses glued to his eyes. I wonder how much
he
has on Fireguard. Smuts points out a field on our left and says we shall see them there in a few minutes.

Hours elapse. Then three horses appear but no Fireguard. Somebody calls out that ‘Fireguard is down'. Have scarcely time to grow cold with fear before Fireguard appears and seems to be gaining on the others. Smuts bounds up and down on the branch shouting ‘Fireguard' until I am nearly dislodged. They thunder up to the jump nearest to us. Black Witch is leading, but jumps short, and she and her rider roll over into the ditch. The next two clear the hedge, and Tim goes over in fine style – the rest follow. We are so near that I can see the horses' rolling eyes and the riders' frantic expressions – some of the horses are steaming with heat.

Smuts rushes to rescue the rider of Black Witch who seems stunned by his fall –am so thrilled over the race that I can't take my eyes off the horses. Away they go over another jump. My Hat pecks and loses distance – there is only one in front of Tim now. Somebody yells, ‘Mr. Maloney – Mr. Maloney' – am doubtful whether this is the name of the horse or the rider – probably the former. They start on the second round of the course.

By the time they appear again Tim is in front with a big grey close behind. Smuts says it is Lightning. The grey seems to be gaining on Tim, and they are neck and neck as they go over our jump. Frightful excitement as they tear up the last field to the winning post. Everyone waving their hats and shouting ‘Lightning' or ‘Fireguard'. Smuts and I scramble off our perch and run back to the winning post to see who has won. We arrive in time to hear everyone shouting ‘Fireguard', and to see Tim getting smacked on the back by all those sagacious people who backed him. Huge lump in my throat at Tim's victory feel perfectly idiotic and can't speak.

We wait for another race which is rather an anticlimax after the last, as only three horses run, and it is practically a walkover for a squat black-haired man whom nobody seems to know. Then we pack into the cars and return to Charters Towers for tea. Major Morley asks me in a hurt tone where I have been hiding as he looked everywhere for me reply that Smuts and I were in a tree and had a splendid view of the whole thing. Major M. looks surprised and says he wanted to explain the race to me and he had brought an extra pair of field glasses for my benefit. Feel I have been rather a brute.

He then says – ‘By the way here are your winnings,' and hands me twenty pounds in rather grubby notes. Am simply staggered at the amount and say so. Major M. says he got four to one for me, and I realise that if Fireguard had lost I should have had to pay five pounds, whereas five shillings was the most I should have risked on the race (the more so as I don't possess five pounds in the world). My breath is almost taken away by the variety and depth of my emotions, but I realise that I had better keep them to myself especially as Fireguard has won and I am twenty pounds to the good.

Rush upstairs to change my shoes which are so heavy with mud that I can hardly walk, and find Tim struggling out of his riding boots. He is flushed with triumph and asks me where I was and whether I saw him at the last fence. Reply ecstatically that I did, and that he is a clever old thing and the best rider in Midshire. Tim says he thinks he showed them a thing or two. Reply suitably. Tim says, ‘It
is
fun, isn't it, Hester?' Reply in the affirmative, but am inwardly feeling somewhat jaded. So wearing to have to be clever all the time.

Show Tim my winnings at which he says, ‘Good God, Hester! What on earth were you thinking of ? Supposing I hadn't won?' Reply that
I knew he was going to win
which cuts the ground from under his feet.

All the people from the point-to-point seem to be having tea at Charters Towers. Fearful squash in the dining room. Smuts sees me from afar and brings me a cup of tea and a tomato sandwich. Major M. also making his way through the crowd with tea for me but arrives too late. Seems rather annoyed about it, but it is not my fault.

Am told that there is to be a dance after dinner and that Mrs. Winthrop has wired to York for two violins and a pianist. Everyone seems to think this quite commonplace behaviour. Major M. is sent off to the telephone with a list of people to ask. He looks rather sulky over it, but has no option as everyone does what Mrs. Winthrop says.

Sit down beside Sir Abraham who remarks, ‘You women are never satisfied. Why can't you be content to sit down with a paper in the evening? This world would be a nice quiet place to live in, if it were not for you women.'

Reply defensively that it is no use to blame women for being women. We were born that way and can't help it any more than a mosquito can help being born a mosquito and addicted to its annoying habits of biting people and giving them malaria. It is merely doing what it was born to do.

Sir Abraham opines that mosquitoes enjoy biting people, just as women enjoy bustling round and upsetting everyone's comfort.

Feel it is time to carry the war into the enemy's territory and point out to Sir Abraham that men are always down on women and yet they expect women to do the most marvellous things such as invisible patches and darns. They also expect them to be able to make a chicken soufflé out of the remains of yesterday's rabbit, and to make short ends not only meet, but tie in a fashionable bow. Sir Abraham roars with laughter and says he would like to see Freda (his daughter) trying to make a chicken soufflé, as long as he had not got to eat it afterwards, but adds that she is pretty useful at tying her income into knots.

Conversation cut short by dressing gong.

I decide to wear my silver, which Tim doesn't like. Haven't I brought my black? he says I know he always likes my black.

Reply that my black is four years old.

Tim says how old do I think his tail coat is?

Reply facetiously that I really can't be expected to know as I am only thirty-two years old myself.

Tim says this place is spoiling me, and it's a good thing we are going home tomorrow.

Dance is a great success. Tim and I cause quite a sensation by dancing together several times. Also dance with Major M. and with Smuts and Captain Winthrop. Sir Abraham asks me to sit out a dance with him, and takes me into his library where he insists on giving me a glass of port.

My next dance is with Commander Grey, but he is nowhere to be seen. Stand about at the door talking to Lady Morley and trying to look animated. Tim comes up to me and says (holding out his watch) do I realise it is now Sunday morning, and am I going to bed as I look absolutely All In. Realise that I must look frightfully plain for Tim to notice it and agree hurriedly to go to bed. We meet Commander Grey and Mrs. Winthrop coming downstairs and hide behind a curtain till they pass. Tim says if he were David Winthrop he would give his wife a good beating.

Our room looks very comfortable and bed most inviting – a glance in the mirror convinces me that Tim is right about my appearance.

Thirty-first January

Wake very late after last night's revels. The sun is shining and everything looks and feels very Sundayish. Point out to Tim the strange fact (which has just struck me) that even the trees look like Sunday. Tim says they look the same as they did yesterday to him.

Breakfast in our room as before – it feels like months since yesterday morning. Tim says if he lived here long he would become a Socialist. Luxury is enervating and isn't it dreadful to think there are people in the world actually starving? Reply that I am – and ask him to pass the marmalade.

Tim says he doesn't know why I can never be serious for two minutes. Feel that late hours do not really agree with Tim's constitution (have noticed the same thing before) whereas I am always particularly bright and chirpy after a dance.

Major Morley knocks on the door and asks if Tim would like to come for a ride this morning as we need not start for Biddington until after lunch. Tim agrees joyfully and says no more about turning Socialist.

I go downstairs to see them start and find Lady Morley is going to church. Offer to accompany her which pleases her immensely. No other guests have appeared as yet, probably due to their exertions of last night.

Very pretty walk across the fields, church bells in the distance play hymns slightly out of tune. Find that Lady M. was donor of bells (fortunately before I remarked upon their dissonance).

Lady Morley says that the reason for all the unrest and troubles of modern life is because people do not go to church regularly. She hopes I will like Mr. Bridge, he is a very earnest man, – and thoroughly orthodox. The choir is really quite good church music is
so
uplifting when suitably rendered.

Here we enter a field of very fierce-looking animals which I feel sure must be bulls, and I hear no more of my companion's remarks until we have negotiated it safely. By this time Lady M. seems to have arrived at the subject of her son. She asks how I think Tony is looking. The dear boy works so hard. She thinks it is a shame the way all the work of the battalion is pushed on to Tony's shoulders. (This idea is so entirely new to me that I find some difficulty in making a suitable reply.)

We climb over a style and Lady Morley says – rather breathlessly that real friendship between a man and a woman is so – – ennobling don't I agree? She actually waits for an answer to this totally irrelevant question so I gather my scattered wits and reply that ‘one meets it so seldom' a cliché which I feel sure will appeal to Lady Morley.

‘Of course it must be a married woman,' Lady Morley says. I reply vaguely that I suppose it must, and hasten forward to open the lych-gate for her.

A crowd of villagers in the churchyard reply respectfully to Lady Morley's greetings and questions concerning Little Harry's tonsils and Maud's influenza. Then I find myself sailing up the aisle in Lady Morley's wake to the front pew where we are fastened in securely by a carved door. Am conscious of eyes boring into my back and wonder what I shall do if I feel unwell, as door seems to be bolted on the outside. Decide that there is no reason why I
should
feel unwell and strive to forget about it and to fix my attention on the service.

Mr. Bridge delivers himself of a sermon based upon Noah, and draws comparisons between flood, and present-day conditions of Europe. Am interested to observe large tomb with lifesize figure of a crusading Morley reclining on the top.

After the service we meet a great many people to whom Lady Morley chats in a condescending manner. Cannot help feeling that she is great draw to Charters Church (but perhaps this thought is slightly irreverent). Mr. Bridge appears from the vestry and is invited to lunch at Charters Towers. We all walk back across the fields together. Conversation chiefly concerned with the laxness of various farmers and their wives who have failed to put in an appearance this morning. Mr. Bridge assures me that the large animals in the field are cows and quite harmless; I feel bound to believe the word of a clergyman, but hurry across nevertheless.

Tim is waiting for me in my room looking exceedingly worried and harassed. He wonders what he should give the butler, and should the first footman also receive a recognition of his services? And if so how much? And have I any half-crowns about me?

Having foreseen this dilemma I am prepared with a small bag of half-crowns, which I procured from the bank before leaving Biddington. (Tim actually has the grace to compliment me on my foresight.) We divide them into piles, not without
Sturm und Drang
. The gong booms for lunch before we have decided what proportion is to go to the butler. Tim says he has done nothing for us except strut about and look well-fed, and he is dashed if he is going to give him more than five bob. Whereas the first footman has brought up our breakfast or was that the second footman? Reply that I have no idea as they all look alike to me, but that I think the butler is too grand to tip five bob, and Tim had better give him ten. Tim says if he doesn't want five bob he can jolly well give it back and he (Tim) will know what to do with it.

The butler, when approached, pockets the five bob with dignified gratitude and all is well. After lunch the Bentley appears we say good-bye to everyone, thank our hostess for our delightful visit, and are whirled off down the drive. Once clear of Charters Towers my thoughts fly homewards, and I begin to wonder what has happened there during our absence (which feels like one of months) and whether Betty is all right –

February

Second February

Grace arrives just as I am starting out to see Mrs. Parsons and say ‘Good-bye' to her. Grace says I am not to go, as she wants to hear all about Charters Towers. Explain to Grace as tactfully as possible that I must go (Mrs. Parsons being bedridden) and suggest that she should walk part of the way with me. Grace refuses to walk with me and asks why bedridden people must always be considered – FIRST (also demands why ‘bedridden' does Mrs. Parsons ride upon her bed, or her bed upon Mrs. Parsons?). She then says darkly that there are worse troubles than bed.

Suggest that she should come and tell me all about them tomorrow; but Grace says now is the time and she may not be alive tomorrow for all I know. She goes on to say that if I go to see Mrs. Parsons she will be very disappointed as she was looking forward to a nice long chat with me. Reply that if I don't go Mrs. Parsons will be disappointed. Grace says I can't possibly be sure of this. How do I know – she asks –that Mrs. Parsons really enjoys my visits? How do I know that a long-lost friend has not just arrived from Australia or Timbuctoo to see Mrs. Parsons and that my presence at their tête-à-tête will not be de trop?

BOOK: Mrs. Tim of the Regiment
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