Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Read Online Free PDF Page B

Morley jogs my arm and tells me to ‘say something’.
    I reply that I can’t.
    He says that I must.
    I am hoisted willy-nilly and by main force on to the platform, where I stand for a few moments absolutely struck dumb. Then I hear my own voice saying feebly that I thank them all for the splendid cheers and that I shall miss them all frightfully, but that, however far away we are, we all belong to the same regiment and they may be sure I shall never forget my friends.
    More cheers.
    I am hauled down off the platform in a state bordering on collapse and am taken home in a taxi by Major Morley.
    Fifteenth January
    Take Bryan over to Nearhampton in the car. Feel as if Tim and I were a couple of jailers taking Bryan to prison. Talk feverishly all the time about seeing Bryan at half term and of the fun we shall have in Easter holidays.
    Tim and Bryan monosyllabic. Bryan very pale. Ask anxiously several times if he feels quite well (Bryan having been known to be sick in the car without adequate warning).
    Several other prisoners have already been deposited by parents and these hail Bryan lugubriously as we drive up to the door.
    Tim and I are invited to stay to tea with Mr. and Mrs. Parker and are conducted upstairs to a large room full of photographs of boys in cricket flannels, boys in football jerseys, boys in Etons either singly or in groups. We sit and make conversation for about half an hour drinking scented China tea and eating very small sandwiches filled with mashed banana. The Parkers talk about their boys past and present, and point out photographs of those who have achieved fame in the field of sport or learning.
    We depart as soon as tea is over to the obvious relief of the Parkers. Suggest we should find Bryan to say ‘Good-bye,’ but Tim says, ‘Better not,’ so we drive off without having done so. Tim spends the next two hours explaining to me why it is So Good for Boys to Go to School, which confirms me in my suspicion that he feels like a jailer too.
    I agree with all he says, but secretly I wonder whether it is really so necessary, and why.
    Sixteenth January
    Am bidden by a mysterious telephone message to ‘call at the barracks at 5.30 and fetch Captain Christie home.’ Cassandra and I haste to the assignation through torrents of rain. Darkness has fallen when we reach the Mess buildings. I shut off the engine and for some minutes we remain in solitude and silence – silence save for the rain which beats heavily on Cassandra’s not altogether waterproof hood and courses down the windshield in huge drops like the abnormal tears of a movie actress.
    Suddenly a voice announces ‘My Gosh if it isn’t Cassandra – AND Mrs. Tim – you’d better come in, Tim will be ages. He’s been stung with Uncle Frankie’s lecture on rear-guard actions.’
    It is the Child – so called from his immense size and domineering manner. I remonstrate feebly but am assured that it is absolutely O.K. as all the Senior Swabs are well occupied, or out, and he is alone in the Mess except for Jack McDougall and Tubby. ‘You’ll drown or freeze if you sit here much longer – what you need is a cocktail,’ he asserts. I suddenly discover that the Child is right, my feet are wet and my nose is blue with cold.
    The Mess is warm and comfortable, I am parked on the fender stool with a cocktail and a cigarette, and feel extraordinarily daring.
    â€˜What about a spot of bridge?’ says Tubby Baxter, ‘it’s been a ghastly afternoon. Three-handed bridge with the Child is like a game out of Alice in Wonderland . He goes five spades with nothing above the Knave in his hand and picks up Ace, King, Queen in dummy!’
    I make tentative enquiries as to how long Tim is likely to be. ‘Hours,’ says Jack comfortably, ‘Uncle Frankie handed over all his notes – which he culls from the campaigns of Hannibal – and poor old Tim is too