Read Online Mrs. Tim of the Regiment by D. E. Stevenson - Free Book Online

stiff’ which militates against its chances. Tim listens eagerly and says quite unnecessarily that he will ‘do his damnedest’.
    Major M. asks what on earth I am writing, and is informed by Tim that it is my strange custom (since 1st January) to record my daily doings in the enormous tome which he now beholds. Tim also volunteers the information that the book is kept securely locked and that he doesn’t ‘think it will last long’. Realise that it is my perseverance he doubts (not the book’s durability) and throw a sofa cushion at his head.
    Major M. seems interested and asks if he comes into the book. Reply that, since it is the veracious chronicle of my life, he comes into it whenever he crosses my path. Feel that Major M. is disappointed with this answer, he pours out another drink and goes away. As Tim’s room is miles away down several draughty corridors and I am rather nervous about strange houses (possibly haunted by ghosts of long-dead Morleys) we decide to share large bed. This in defiance of the conventions of high life which decree that husbands and wives shall sleep solo – or at any rate not with each other.
    Bed is exceedingly soft and comfortable.
    Thirtieth January
    Cannot think where I am when I awake. Maid comes to light fire and enquire about baths; also asks diffidently whether ‘the major’ will breakfast here or in his own room. Reply boldly that he will have it here and waken Tim to tell him of his rise in rank. Tim not particularly amused at what I consider a good joke.
    Footman enters with enormous tray containing hot dishes with lamps beneath them. Tim dissertates on the excellent idea of breakfasting comfortably in one’s own room instead of facing the world with false smiles concealing emptiness, and says he could put in a couple of weeks at Charters Towers.
    We dawdle about, dressing, and talking about our fellow guests Tim says what do I think of Melita, and do I think Morley is going to marry her. Am amazed at the question as I am sure he has never thought of her. We then discuss our host and hostess and calculate ‘How Much Sir Abraham must have per annum’. Calculations extremely vague as neither Tim nor I have had any experience of establishments run on lines of Charters Towers with butlers and footmen and hunting stables, etc. Tim says he doesn’t suppose Morley will go on in the regiment at any rate not after Sir Abraham’s death. Whereupon I point out that Sir Abraham is most hale and hearty and not the least likely to die for years.
    Tim says, ‘He doesn’t overeat himself either.’
    We go downstairs at eleven o’clock, but find nobody about, so feel that we have made a faux sortie, and decide to retire upstairs again and wait till twelve.
    Meet Mrs. Winthrop (Major Morley’s married sister) just leaving her room. She says, ‘Good God, where have you been?’ and seems horrified to think we are together without visible means of relief from each other’s company. Suggests that Tim should ‘beat up Tony’ and have a look at the stables with him, or better still that Tim should go to the stables with her and I should ‘beat up Tony’. I vote unhesitatingly for the first course of action. Tim, however, refuses to ‘beat up’ his superior officer so Mrs. Winthrop beats him up, and we find him giving the finishing touches to his toilet with a clothes-brush.
    We all go together to the stables accompanied by a large white bulldog called Joseph who has a chronic tendency to adenoids. The party grows like a snowball as it rolls along – am struck by the ability of these people to talk nonsense incessantly, and decide that I am a dull dog.
    Major Morley has a pocket full of sugar and instructs me in the art of conveying same to a horse’s mouth without getting bitten. Gain confidence rapidly and begin to feel quite at home with the beautiful velvet-nosed creatures. Major