Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (26 page)

My airy dreams fall with a crash, and I realise that my visit to Burnside will be absolutely ruined – I feel extremely annoyed with the cousin for being a woman, and with the woman for being here. Why couldn't she have stayed at home for this one short fortnight or gone to a spa? (She looks like a woman addicted to spas.) – I realise, of course, that my feeling is unreasonable, as, being a cousin, she has far more right to be here than I have.

These thoughts pass swiftly through my head, and the lady is still staring at me with unseeing eyes. ‘Perhaps I should tell you that my name is Mrs. Falconer,' she says at last. ‘I've been hearing about
you
, of course. You live at Kiltwinkle, don't you? I can't say I ever cared very much for Kiltwinkle, but Elspeth
would
settle there. Oh, I remember your name now
Christie
, isn't it? I knew it had something to do with music we used often to go and see the Christie Minstrels when we were children; they had black faces and played banjos
most
amusing. Of course they had nothing to do with
you,
but it is so strange having the same name such a coincidence.'

I am now beginning to feel positively lightheaded, but whether this is due to the good lady's volubility, or the effects of the long day in the train with insufficient food I cannot determine.

‘I wonder if you are related to some charming people I met at Bournemouth,' Mrs. Falconer continues, still with that unseeing stare which seems to have some strange hypnotic power over its victim. ‘It must have been in 1911 or perhaps 1912 anyhow, it was a very warm summer and long before the war they were staying at my hotel I wish I could remember the name of it. “Parkfield” or “Chatterton” or something like that. Such a comfortable hotel it was, with central heating in all the bedrooms. Of course we did not require it, because it was eighty in the shade at the time, but I remember thinking how pleasant it would be in chilly weather.'

‘Were your friends called Christie?' asks Mr. Loudon, who has come into the drawing room during Mrs. Falconer's dissertation.

‘I think so,' she replies. ‘It was either Christie or Christison, or it might have been Gilchrist – at any rate they were very charming; there was a mother, very aristocratic-looking with white hair, but the story got about that she was on the stage when he married her. Not that I have anything against the stage myself – and, of course, if they were related to Mrs. Christie it couldn't have been true – I'm only telling you what was said in the hotel–'

Mrs. Loudon now appears and interrupts the story to enquire about milk and sugar. ‘Hand Mrs. Christie the hot scones, Guthrie,' she says. ‘Here's a letter from the MacQuills asking us all over to tennis on Monday. Hester, you ought to see Castle Quill while you're here. Millie, take one of these biscuits I know you like them, and Mary made them specially. She'll be black affronted if none of them are eaten.'

We all eat largely of the good things pressed upon us by our hostess, and the conversation paces along very pleasantly, but somehow I can't get rid of the feeling that Mrs. Loudon is not herself; there is something wanting in her manner. I miss those trenchant comments, those dashing pounces which enchanted me at Kiltwinkle.

It is not until we are dressing for dinner that the cause of Mrs. Loudon's depression is made manifest. She calls me into her bedroom in a mysterious manner, and asks me to admire the view. It is indeed admirable, for the trees have been cleared to give a peep of the loch, behind which a thickly wooded hill sweeps upward to meet the sky in a bold curve. To the left the country slopes gently and is covered with pale green bracken, interspersed by feathery birch trees, their barks like silver in the afternoon sun.

‘But you didn't call me in here to admire the view,' I point out to her, when I have exhausted my scanty stock of adjectives, and marvelled afresh at the paucity of the English language.

Mrs. Loudon nods. ‘I've been wearying for you, Hester,' she says, taking up a comb from her dressing table and scraping fiercely at her thick grey hair. ‘The truth is Guthrie's being chased by a cat, and I've no more idea what to do about it than fly. Millie's no use to talk to – she likes doing the talking herself – and if I can't talk to somebody about it I'll burst. You know the kind of a girl, with a cat face – all soft and furry – and red lips from the chemist's shop. Of course, the man has been starved of girls for eighteen months – I'm not blaming him, though how any son of mine can be such a fool – sitting and yearning at her like a codfish.'

‘I can't imagine him yearning at anyone.'

‘Wait till you see him,' says Mrs. Loudon, threateningly, ‘I couldn't have imagined it either – Guthrie of all men! Guthrie who's never looked at a girl in his life! I've often wished he'd give me a daughter-in-law – God forgive me for not knowing I was lucky!'

‘Where did she meet him?'

‘At a dance in Portsmouth – one of the ships gave a dance – and now she's followed him here, and she's staying at the hotel in Avielochan “fishing with Dad”, that's the excuse. “Fishing with Dad,” ' repeats Mrs. Loudon scornfully. ‘The girl's never fished for anything except men! Oh yes, I'm being nice to her I hope I know better than to let him see what a scunner I've taken at her but it's not easy for me to hide my feelings, Hester. Surely at my age a woman should be past the need to wear a false face.'

I don't see what help I can be in the matter, and say so as sympathetically as possible.

‘Oh well – I was just hoping he'd see the difference,' said Mrs. Loudon cryptically. ‘I was just hoping – perhaps – you would be nice to Guthrie and that – ' here the scheming woman actually has the grace to blush – ‘and anyway, I'll have someone to talk to.'

I can't help laughing at the idea of a staid married woman like myself being cast for the rôle of vamp.

Second June

Spend the morning lying in a deck chair in the garden pretending to knit. How glorious to have nothing to do! Mrs. Loudon comes out and consults me about Betty's food. The conversation strays (by some path not retraceable) to Guthrie's infatuation. We are to see the young woman this afternoon, as she has been invited to tea and to fish on the loch afterwards. I realise, after a few moments' conversation, that I am being asked to go out in the boat with them and ‘prevent anything from happening'. The abandonment of her usual direct method of speech shows how much Mrs. Loudon is
bouleversée
by Guthrie's attachment, and I feel so sorry for her that I consent against my better judgment.

Mrs. Falconer strolls down about midday, and remarks that the sun is very hot and the loch very calm. ‘I can see it from the right-hand corner of my window if I lean out a little,' she informs us. ‘Now where is Guthrie? He should not be wasting his time, you know, Elspeth. Why doesn't he go and fish? He would have no trouble with the boat today, the water is as calm as a mill pond, and there is not a suspicion of wind to blow his flies about.'

Poor Mrs. Loudon is too upset to battle with Mrs. Falconer; she departs hastily for the house, saying that she forgot to tell Mary about the curds.

‘So unrestful,' Mrs. Falconer says with a sigh. ‘Dear Elspeth, we are all so fond of her, but she is
too much
of a Martha. Just to sit here quietly in the golden sunshine, with the pine trees standing on the hill, is not enough. Some people are incapable of admiring the beauties of Nature in silence don't you agree, Mrs. Christie?' I agree fervently.

Mrs. Falconer continues: ‘It was in the autumn of 1905 that I first really saw Nature at its best. Before then I was like the man in the poem, who saw a violet by a mossy stone, and it was nothing more. I dare say you may not know the poem, but it is very beautiful, I can assure you. I heard it recited at a concert by a tall man with a glass eye, and it made an indelible impression on my memory. It may have been something to do with the glass eye, which was a slightly different colour from the other one. Very strange, isn't it, how a glass eye remains fixed, while the other one rolls about, but I dare say it would be stranger if they both rolled in different directions.'

At this moment a tall form is seen hurrying across the garden. ‘Guthrie! Guthrie dear!' cries Mrs. Falconer. ‘Come here and tell us where you have been. You can hold my wool for me – there – like that, dear. No, not over the thumb – move your hands slowly from side to side as I wind. Now we are all comfortable. Did you catch a lot of fish this morning?'

‘I didn't try,' replies Guthrie, waving his hands in the air like a praying mantis.

‘Now Guthrie, that's too bad of you. Fancy wasting a glorious day like this! Tomorrow may be wet for all we know – not so quickly, dear, and keep your hands lower you know your mother paid pounds and pounds for the fishing, and there you go mooching round as if there were nothing to do.'

Guthrie replies, with admirable restraint, that he had to go to the village to fetch meat.

‘But if you had caught some nice fish it would have done just as well,' says Mrs. Falconer kindly. ‘However, I dare say you never thought of that, or you would not have gone that long hot walk in the sun. I never was a great one for meat, myself. Dear Papa used to say
that
was the reason I had such a nice complexion. I don't know whether you remember my father, Guthrie; he was a very fine man. His beard was considered one of the finest in the Conservative Club in London.'

Guthrie says he never saw Mrs. Falconer's father. I can see that his patience is wearing thin, and welcome the appearance of my daughter. She and Annie have spent the morning down near the loch. Betty approaches, hopping first on one leg and then on the other.

‘Oh, Mummie,' she says breathlessly, ‘is it dinner yet? The water is frightfully cold, and I've found seventeen tadpoles. Annie is carrying them in my pail. They've got wiggly tails.'

The gong rings for lunch.

Guthrie's young woman, who rejoices in the name of Elsie Baker, arrives at teatime in a Daimler from the hotel. She is welcomed by Guthrie with servile adoration. Mrs. Loudon smiles grimly, and says she hopes Miss Baker is well; then she turns to the chauffeur and asks him fiercely if he will take tea in the servants' hall. The poor man is so alarmed by her manner that he says it doesn't matter at all, and he often does without tea, anyway.

‘Nonsense,' says Mrs. Loudon. ‘Away with you to the kitchen, and mind and take a good tea while you're about it.'

The man disappears hastily, and we all troop into the dining room.

Miss Baker is attired in a gown of printed voile which looks more suitable for a garden party than for a fishing expedition. She is certainly pretty, and has quite a nice dimple when she smiles. I can see her resemblance to a pussycat, something about the short, pointed chin and the way her eyes go up at the corners green eyes.

Guthrie secures a seat next to his divinity, and admires her, mostly in silence. The rest of us make futile conversation. Mrs. Falconer, from whom I expected a useful flow, seems to have dried up at the source. She reminds me of the rivers of Australia, which, I have been told, are either rushing along in full flood, or else mere stagnant ditches with no refreshment for man or beast.

Mrs. Loudon, behind two large tea cosies, whispers to me, ‘Did you ever see the like?' To which I reply, ‘Yes, I've seen dozens exactly the same.'

Mrs. Falconer pricks up her ears at this, and says ‘Dozens of what?' which completely stumps me.

Luckily Mrs. Falconer does not wait long for a reply. She is one of those blessed people who would rather give than receive information. ‘Aren't people queer?' she says, looking round the table to see if we are all listening. ‘I once knew a man called Charles Wood, and one day when he was going to Filey by train – or perhaps it was Bristol, I can't be quite certain – he saw a train starting off with Charleswood written on it. And what do you think he did? Well, he jumped into the train and went there, although he had a ticket in his pocket for Filey – or it may have been Bristol – and when he got there, he bought a house and insisted on going there to live, although it was most inconvenient for his work and didn't suit his wife. She was an invalid, of course, having broken her leg out hunting – or it may have been falling off a bus – no, that was somebody else I am thinking of; it was falling off a horse she broke it, but I can't remember, just for the moment, whether that happened before they went to live at Charleswood or after they got there. She disliked the place intensely, it was so awkward ordering things on the telephone – Mrs. Charles Wood, Charleswood – such a muddle it was, for the poor thing.'

Guthrie, who has been waiting with ill-concealed impatience for the end of the story, now jumps up and says we had better be getting under way. Whereupon Mrs. Falconer exclaims that these nautical expressions are so intriguing, and how do you spell it? Is it
weigh
? And has it anything to do with weighing the anchor?

‘Yes, rather,' says Guthrie. ‘We weigh the anchor every morning to see how much it has lost during the night. You've heard the expression that a ship is losing way, haven't you, Cousin Milly?' And goes out hurriedly, before anything more can be said.

Mrs. Falconer smiles vaguely and repeats her conviction that it is all most intriguing, adding, that if she had a son, she would insist on his going into the navy just like dear Elspeth. Whereupon ‘dear Elspeth' replies, uncompromisingly, that she did everything she could to prevent Guthrie from going into the navy, short of locking him in the tool shed.