Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (16 page)

Seventeenth March

Note arrives from a certain Mrs. Porter asking me to excuse the formality of a call and come to luncheon with her on Wednesday 23rd March at 1.30 p.m. My acceptance of her invitation will cause her untold pleasure. Can't imagine who she is nor how she knows my name. Tim says I had better go, as we must not get the name of being ‘standoffish', and, anyway, they may be useful people to know. He asks where the Porters ‘hang out' and, on being informed, remarks that Lauderdale Square is the ‘oofiest part of Westburgh'. I reply to the note, with an enthusiasm I am far from feeling, that I am
delighted
to accept and it is
so
kind of her to ask me.

Tim takes me to Westburgh in Cassandra and we buy brushes for cook, also a girdle (which appears to be a large iron plate with a handle over the top). The assistant in the shop says it is for bannocks – which leaves me as wise as I was before.

Nineteenth March

On returning from my daily pilgrimage to the village I am informed that a lady has called and is waiting to see me in the drawing room. Annie thinks she said her name was Mrs. Loudon, and, anyway, she is the lady from ‘Holmgarth' next door, because Annie was in the garden hanging up my stockings on the rope and saw the lady walk out of the next house and in at our gate.

Rush upstairs and find my visitor seated in a straight-backed chair. She is all in black and wears pince-nez and button boots, and has rather an alarming appearance until she smiles. Express great contrition for lack of fire. Mrs. Loudon says the room is warm enough and she has called for me because her son is in the navy. She evidently sees that her words have puzzled me because she explains that if her son went to a strange place she would like the neighbors to call for
him
. Am still somewhat at sea, but reply that I am very pleased to see her, which seems safe. We talk of various matters and discover to our mutual surprise and satisfaction that her son is in the same ship as my cousin, Harold Fotheringay. Am wondering all the time whether she wants me to go out with her as her words seem to imply, but finally decide that this is just an ordinary call. Mrs. Loudon says that neighbours should be neighbourly – but in Westburgh and its environs this is not always possible; for, unless people are the same sort of people as yourself, you can have little in common with them and they don't want you, what's more. It was very different in the country (she used to live in Ayrshire) it was a recognised thing to call for a newcomer, but things are changed now. ‘And here am I singing the Old Folk's Litany already,' she adds with a twinkle in her eye, ‘and you'll be thinking Mrs. Loudon is like the other folks and a bit of a nuisance forbye. But it
does
seem to me that the people I used to know were more human and wise-like. There was surely less struggle for money and less running after the great ones who aren't so very great after all's said and done. There was less vulgarity and we were content with simpler pleasures.'

Mrs. Loudon interests me, I have never met anyone like her before. I like her downright manner and her trenchant Scots tongue. Even at this stage of affairs I feel she may be a friend worth having. I suggest (more to see what she will say than because I disagree with her criticisms of modern life) that even in Jane Austen's day there were those who ran after the so-called great.

Her eyes light up with humour – ‘My dear,' she says, ‘you're laughing at me now, and it's not seemly to laugh at an old done woman, but I'll forgive you it all, if you know your Jane. Come and see me some day at teatime,' she adds as she rises to go. ‘I've a cook who loves nothing better than to bake and it would be a kindness to come and eat some tea-bread. I've outgrown my sweet tooth now, much to Mary's sorrow. We'll have a crack about Jane, and whether the old days or the new days are better.'

She takes my hand in a firm clasp and departs without further delay, and I count this an additional merit to Mrs. Loudon, for there is nothing so annoying to me as a long-drawn-out departure.

Twenty-first March

Visit Hillcrest School which I have been told is an excellent scholastic establishment for young children. The headmistress interviews me in a small, office-like apartment and puts me through a searching examination as to Betty's attainments. I answer as best I can and tell her that Miss Hardcastle found Betty very quick.

‘Quickness is more often than not a sign of a superficial brain,' says Miss McCarthy severely.

I relapse into a species of jelly, but still have sufficient strength to say that I think she will find Betty is a good child and very reasonable.

‘They're all good here – they have to be,' says Miss McCarthy. ‘The child seems backward, but what can you expect, living in England. We'll bring her up to the standard, but she'll have to work.'

I murmur faintly that Betty is very young, but Miss McCarthy treats this excuse with contempt, and decrees that Betty is to start on Thursday, ‘and not waste any more precious time'. She hands me a printed list of the school uniform, and bows me to the door – I emerge from the interview completely disillusioned as to my adequacy as a parent.

The more I reflect upon this interview, the more curious it seems to me that I should have sat there so meekly and allowed myself to be browbeaten by the woman. Her strong mental dominance has probably been engendered by years of teaching school (as the Americans say). I can't imagine any child having the moral strength to be naughty anywhere near Miss McCarthy, and I wonder whether this is altogether desirable. If her dread presence keeps them good, what chance is there for the development of their own self-control, and what happens when they emerge from her influence? Tim says I am mad, and if she can manage the little devils without a whip he takes off his hat to her.

Twenty-third March

I am late in arriving for the luncheon, having got hopelessly lost amongst a perfect jungle of terraces and crescents and squares of enormous and affluent-looking houses. Am shown into a large room full of large women, none of whom I have ever seen before – hostess identified by absence of hat. We proceed downstairs to lunch (I mean luncheon), all talking intimately and animatedly about Hilda and Carrie and Isabel and dear Guthrie, and other well-known people of whom I have never heard. Am so dazed and embarrassed by my late arrival and friendless condition that I sit down in the seat nearest me and have to be removed to make way for a lady with a beard and an ostrich feather in her hat. (Feel untold sympathy for the unfortunate person in the Bible who sat down in the wrong seat and was asked to make way for a more important guest.)

Try to make conversation with my right-hand neighbour without any result. Discover that my right-hand neighbour is stone deaf in her left ear.

Find myself partaking of grapefruit, which always gives me a violent headache, but feel that I cannot draw attention to myself by refusing it. Left-hand neighbour turns to me and remarks, ‘I am always so sorry for army people – so dreadful to be moved away from a place when you are fond of it.' Reply that there is some consolation in the fact that you are also moved away from places you are not fond of.

L. H. N. evidently thinks she has performed her duty to me, and resumes an interesting conversation with
her
L. H. N. about Alistair's appendix.

Luncheon is long and rich I cease to marvel at the size of everybody, but am considerably impressed by the fact that sixteen plates all to match can be produced for every course.

We return to the drawing room, where we partake of coffee. Several people ask me how I like Westburgh, and add that it must be such a delightful change for me smile and nod. Hostess comes over to me and asks if I have been in Scotland before, and adds that it must be delightful to visit Scotland for the first time. Reply that I was born in Eastburgh, but find this is not to my credit.

I am introduced to a woman whose name sounds like ‘Miss Horse'. She asks me if I hunt. Reply in a moment of idiocy, ‘Only for servants.' – – – Miss Horse if that is really her name, which scarcely seems possible – takes no notice of my levity and says I really ought to hunt, as it's the only sport worth talking about and I should think seriously of taking it up while I am in Westburgh – adds that she can't think how I am going to fill in my time unless I hunt at least three days a week. Promise to think about it – which is perfectly safe.

Miss Horse then says can I guess what her shoeing bill is for six months. This seems an extraordinary question to me, and after a glance at her extremely expensive-looking lizard-shod feet I evade the issue by saying, ‘They
are
expensive nowadays, aren't they? Especially if you do much dancing.'

A diversion is caused by entrance of host, who is greeted rapturously as ‘William' by fourteen female guests. He is quite unmoved by either joy or embarrassment. He is introduced to me, and says, in a deep voice without moving his lips, ‘You bin Ittly? We jus' got back Ittly. Beastly hawt!' Reply that I have been to Venice. (It was on the occasion of our honeymoon, but I hope that he will imagine it was quite recently.) He replies, ‘We bin Venice too. Beastly hawt. Smelly place, Venice.'

Miss Horse murmurs to me that ‘William is so English.'

Host is smoking an excellent cigarette –it smells like a Sobrani (which is my favourite brand). Realise that the smell of the Sobrani is all I am to get, and take my departure in the wake of Miss Horse. Host accompanies us downstairs, and I hear him saying to her (as I am searching for my umbrella amongst those of – the other guests), ‘You bin Ittly? We jus' got back Ittly beastly hawt.'

Twenty-fourth March

After breakfast Betty appears, all ready to start for school. I have promised to take her and see her settled in, so I rush for my hat, waterproof, and faithful umbrella, and we set off together in torrents of rain. Tim accompanies us to the gate, giving jocular advice to Betty as to her behaviour in school towards teachers and fellow scholars. Try to point out to Betty as we walk up the hill that of course it is ‘Only Daddy's fun', and she must be very good and quiet and do all she is told; to which Betty replies gaily, ‘Oh yes, I never take any notice of what he says.' Feel that this is not quite the lesson I intended to impart, but am powerless to put my meaning into words.

The moment we enter the school Betty rushes up to an unknown child with red hair and says, ‘What's your name? Mine's Betty,' and is immediately absorbed into a group of children all about her own size and all dressed alike in regulation navy gym tunic and cream silk blouse.

I stand about in the passage for a few minutes, jostled by everybody who passes, until – as Betty takes no further notice of me – I decide to go home.

On the way home I reflect – not for the first time – on the strange difference between Betty and myself when a child. My first day at school was torture – I was so shy and miserable that I could scarcely answer rationally when spoken to. There was a huge lump in my throat, and I nearly fainted with sheer fright when any of the mistresses looked in my direction. No fond but misguided parent accompanied me to my doom – perhaps this was just as well, as I should probably have disgraced myself with tears. How fortunate is Betty, with her modern, unselfconscious attitude to life. The world is her oyster, and she goes forward eagerly to open it. Is this because her upbringing has been different – because she has not been kept in the dark, relegated to the nursery, and told that she should be seen and not heard? Will she continue to face the world full of confidence and security, or will her first serious snub shrivel up the untried plant of her self-assurance? What kind of men and women will result from this post-war generation of childhood?

Twenty-sixth March

Receive a letter from Bryan which says, ‘Dear Mum, Could you possibly send me half a crown? I got swished [caned] on Wednesday for cheeking Codfish. We went to the village on Tuesday, and I bought chocolate cigarets when the master wasn't looking, but I had to give Dennison some because he saw me. We had rugger on Saturday and Villiers kicked me on the shin; he said it was not on purposs but it looked like it. Love from Bryan.'

Decide
not
to show letter to Tim as I know that Tim will merely say
he
never got more than five shillings per term when he was Bryan's age, and would have been ashamed to ask his parents for more. This will lead to the usual argument as to the purchasing power of five bob then and now. Tim will not approve of the spelling, nor of cheeking Codfish (whoever he may be), nor of the clandestine purchase of chocolate cigarettes, and will end by forbidding me to send the money. This would be a pity, as I always feel uncomfortable when I do things forbidden by Tim. (A relic of Victorianism, I suppose.)

Grace has an extraordinary theory, which she has propounded to me more than once, that anyone born in Victoria's reign is bound to have the seeds of Victorian complexes dormant in their subconscious mind. The truth being, of course, that the atmosphere of hypocrisy lay like a miasma on the land, infecting the youngest children with its poisonous breath.

Must try this on Mrs. Loudon, and see how she reacts to it.

Twenty-eighth March

Decide to call on Mrs. Loudon this afternoon. Put on my best hat and sally forth. Am absurdly disappointed when informed by the neat maid that ‘Mrs. Loudon is out, and she'll be awful sorry to miss you, I'm sure.' Leave cards, and return to Loanhead.