Lucia Victrix

by E. F. Benson

  She trundled indoors. Georgie dug another hole for a bulb, and the trowel brought up a small cylindrical object, blackish of hue, but of smooth, polished surface, and evidently no normal product of a loamy soil. It was metal, and a short stub of wood projected from it. He rubbed the soil off it, and engraved on it were two initials, B.F. Memory poised like a hawk and swooped.

  ‘It’s it!’ he said to himself. ‘Not a doubt about it. Benjamin Flint.’

  He slipped it into his pocket while he considered what to do with it. No; it would never do to tell Diva what he had found. Relics did not bury themselves, and who but Diva could have buried this one? Evidently she wanted to get rid of it, and it would be heartless as well as unnecessary to let her know that she had not succeeded. Bury it again then? There are feats of which human nature is incapable, and Georgie dug a hole for the next tulip.

  Diva whizzed out again, and went on talking exactly where she had left off before the kettle boiled over, but repeating the last word to give him the context.

  ‘– wondering if it was not teeth in some way. She often says they’re so marvellous, but people who have really got marvellous teeth don’t speak about them. They let them talk for themselves. Or bite. Tilling’s full of conundrums as the Padre said. Especially since Lucia’s become Mayor. She’s more dynamic than ever and makes things happen all round her. What a gift! Oh, dear me, I’m talking to her husband. You don’t mind, Mr Georgie? She’s so central.’

  Georgie longed to tell her how central Lucia had been about Elizabeth’s relaxed throat, but that wouldn’t be wise.

  ‘Mind? Not a bit,’ he said. ‘And she would love to know that you feel that about her. Well, good luck to the tulips, and don’t dig them up to see how they’re getting on. It doesn’t help them.’

  ‘Of course not. Won’t it be a bower in the spring? And Irene is going to paint a sign-board for me. Sure to be startling. But nothing nude, I said, except hands and faces.’

  Irene was doing physical jerks on her doorstep as Georgie passed her house on his way home.

  ‘Come in, King of my heart,’ she called. ‘Oh, Georgie, you’re a public temptation, you are, when you’ve got on your mustard-coloured cape and your blue tam-o’-shanter. Come in, and let me adore you for five minutes – only five – or shall I show you the new design for my fresco?’

  ‘I should like that best,’ said Georgie severely.

  Irene had painted a large sketch in oils to take the place of that which the Town Surveying Department had prohibited. Tilling, huddling up the hill and crowned by the church formed the background, and in front, skimming up the river was a huge oyster-shell, on which was poised a substantial Victorian figure in shawl and bonnet and striped skirt, instead of the nude, putty-coloured female. It reproduced on a large scale the snap-shot of Elizabeth which had appeared in the Hampshire Argus, and the face, unmistakably Elizabeth’s, wore a rapturous smile. One arm was advanced, and one leg hung out behind, as if she was skating. An equally solid gentleman, symbolizing wind, sprawled, in a frock-coat and top-hat, on a cloud behind her and with puffed cheeks propelled her upstream.

  ‘Dear me, most striking!’ said Georgie. ‘But isn’t it very like that photograph of Elizabeth in the Argus? And won’t people say that it’s Major Benjy in the clouds?’

  ‘Why, of course they will, stupid, unless they’re blind,’ cried Irene. ‘I’ve never forgiven Mapp for being Mayoress and standing against you for the Town Council. This will take her down a peg, and all for the sake of Lucia.’

  ‘It’s most devoted of you, Irene,’ he said, ‘and such fun, too, but do you think –’

  ‘I never think,’ cried Irene. ‘I feel, and that’s how I feel. I’m the only person in this petty, scheming world of Tilling who acts on impulse. Even Lucia schemes sometimes. And as you’ve introduced the subject –’

  ‘I haven’t introduced any subject yet,’ said Georgie.

  ‘Just like you. You wouldn’t. But Georgie, what a glorious picture, isn’t it? I almost think it has gained by being Victorianized; there’s a devilish reserved force about the Victorians which mere nudity lacks. A nude has all its cards on the table. I’ve a good mind to send it to the Royal Academy instead of making a fresco of it. Just to punish the lousy Grundys of Tilling.’

  ‘That would serve them right,’ agreed Georgie.

  The afternoon bicycling along the shore was a great success. The tide was low, exposing a broad strip of firm, smooth sand. Chapman and the bicycle-boy no longer ran behind, and, now that there was so much room for turning, neither of the athletes found the least difficulty in doing so, and their turns soon grew, as Lucia said, as sharp as a needle. The rocks and groins provided objects to be avoided, and they skimmed close by them without collision. They mounted and dismounted, masters of the arts of balance and direction; all those secret practisings suddenly flowered.

  ‘It’s time to get bicycles of our own,’ said Lucia as they turned homewards. ‘We’ll order them to-day, and as soon as they come we’ll do our morning shopping on them.’

  ‘I shall be very nervous,’ said Georgie.

  ‘No need, dear. I pass you as being able to ride through any traffic, and to dismount quickly and safely. Just remember not to look at anything you want to avoid. The head turned well away.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ said Georgie, much nettled by this patronage. ‘And about you. Remember about your brake and your bell. You confuse them sometimes. Ring your bell, dear! Now put on your brake. That’s better.’

  They joined the car and drove back along Fire-Pot Road. Work was still going on there, and Lucia, in a curious fit of absence of mind, pointed to the bubbling saucepan of tar.

  ‘And to think that only a few days ago,’ she said, ‘I actually – My dear, I’ll confess, especially as I feel sure you’ve guessed. I upset that tar-pot. Twice.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I knew that,’ said Georgie. ‘But I’m glad you’ve told me at last. I’ll tell you something, too. Look at this. Tell me what it is.’

  He took out of his pocket the silver top of Benjy’s riding-whip, which he had excavated this morning. Foljambe had polished it up. Lucia’s fine eyebrows knit themselves in recollective agony.

  ‘Familiar, somehow,’ she mused. ‘Ah! Initials. B.F. Why, it’s Benjy’s! Newspaper-office! Riding-whip! Disappearance! Georgie, how did you come by it?’

  Georgie’s account was punctuated by comments from Lucia.

  ‘Only the depth of a tulip-bulb … Not nearly deep enough, such want of thoroughness … Diva must have buried it herself, I think … So you were quite right not to have told her; very humiliating. But how did the top come to be snapped off? Do you suppose she broke it off, and buried the rest somewhere else, like murderers cutting up their victims? And look at the projecting end! It looks as if it had been bitten off, and why should Diva do that? If it had been Elizabeth with her beautiful teeth, it would have been easier to understand.’

  ‘All very baffling,’ said Georgie, ‘but anyhow I’ve traced the disappearances a step further. I shall turn my attention to Blue Birdie next.’

  Lucia thought she had done enough confession for one day.

  ‘Yes, do look into it, Georgie,’ she said. ‘Very baffling, too. But Mr Wyse is most happy about the effect of my explanation upon Susan. She has accepted my theory that Blue Birdie has gone to a higher sphere.’

  ‘That seems to me a very bad sign,’ said Georgie. ‘It looks as if she was seriously deranged. And, candidly, do you believe it yourself?’

  ‘So difficult, isn’t it,’ said Lucia in a philosophical voice, ‘to draw hard and fast lines between what one rationally believes, and what one trusts is true, and what seems to admit of more than one explanation. We must have a talk about that some day. A wonderful sunset!’

  The bicycles arrived a week later, nickel-plated and belled and braked; Lucia’s had the Borough arms of Tilling brilliantly painted on the tool-bag behind her saddle. They were brought up to Mallards after da
rk; and next morning, before breakfast, the two rode about the garden paths, easily passing up the narrow path into the kitchen-garden, and making circles round the mulberry-tree on the lawn (‘Here we go round the mulberry-tree’ light-heartedly warbled Lucia) and proving themselves adepts. Lucia could not eat much breakfast with the first public appearance so close, and Georgie vainly hoped that tropical rain would begin. But the sun continued to shine, and at the shopping-hour they mounted and bumped slowly down the cobbles of the steep street into the High Street, ready to ring their bells. Irene was the first to see them, and she ran by Lucia’s side.

  ‘Marvellous, perfect person,’ she cried, putting out her hand as if to lay it on Lucia’s. ‘What is there you can’t do?’

  ‘Yes, dear, but don’t touch me,’ screamed Lucia in panic. ‘So rough just here.’ Then they turned on to the smooth tarmac of the High Street.

  Evie saw them next.

  ‘Dear, oh, dear, you’ll both be killed!’ she squealed. ‘There’s a motor coming at such a pace. Kenneth, they’re riding bicycles!’

  They passed superbly on. Lucia dismounted at the post-office; Georgie, applying his brake with exquisite delicacy, halted at the poulterer’s with one foot on the pavement. Elizabeth was in the shop and Diva came out of the post-office.

  ‘Good gracious me,’ she cried. ‘Never knew you could. And all this traffic!’

  ‘Quite easy, dear,’ said Lucia. ‘Order a chicken, Georgie, while I get some stamps.’

  She propped her bicycle against the kerb; Georgie remained sitting till Mr Rice came out of the poulterer’s with Elizabeth.

  ‘What a pretty bicycle!’ she said, green with jealousy. ‘Oh, there’s Worship, too. Well, this is a surprise! So accomplished!’

  They sailed on again. Georgie went to the lending-library, and found that the book Lucia wanted had come, but he preferred to have it sent to Mallards: hands, after all, were meant to take hold of handles. Lucia went on to the grocer’s, and by the time he joined her there, the world of Tilling had collected: the Padre and Evie, Elizabeth and Benjy and Mr Wyse, while Susan looked on from the Royce.

  ‘Such a saving of time,’ said Lucia casually to the admiring assembly. ‘A little spin in the country, Georgie, for half an hour?’

  They went unerringly down the High Street, leaving an amazed group behind.

  ‘Well, there’s a leddy of pluck,’ said the Padre. ‘See, how she glides along. A mistress of a’ she touches.’

  Elizabeth was unable to bear it, and gave an acid laugh.

  ‘Dear Padre!’ she said. ‘What a fuss about nothing! When I was a girl I learned to ride a bicycle in ten minutes. The easiest thing in the world.’

  ‘Did ye, indeed, me’m,’ said the Padre, ‘and that was very remarkable, for in those days, sure, there was only those great high machines, which you rode straddle.’

  ‘Years and years after that,’ said Elizabeth, moving away.

  He turned to Evie.

  ‘A bicycle would be a grand thing for me in getting about the parish,’ he said. ‘I’ll step into the bicycle-shop, and see if they’ve got one on hire for to learn on.’

  ‘Oh, Kenneth, I should like to learn, too,’ said Evie. ‘Such fun!’

  Meantime the pioneers, rosy with success, had come to the end of the High Street. From there the road sloped rapidly downhill. ‘Now we can put on the pace a little, Georgie,’ said Lucia, and she shot ahead. All her practisings had been on the level roads of the marsh or on the sea-shore, and at once she was travelling much faster than she had intended, and with eyes glued on the curving road, she fumbled for her brake. She completely lost her head. All she could find in her agitation was her bell, and, incessantly ringing it, she sped with ever increasing velocity down the short steep road towards the bridge over the railway. A policeman on point duty stepped forward, with the arresting arm of the law held out to stop her, but as she took no notice he stepped very hastily back again, for to commit suicide and possibly manslaughter, was a more serious crime than dangerous riding. Lucia’s face was contorted with agonized apprehension, her eyes stared, her mouth was wide open, and all the young constable could do by way of identification was to notice, when the unknown female had whisked by him, that the bicycle was new and that there was the Borough coat of arms on the tool-bag. Lucia passed between a pedestrian and a van, just avoiding both: she switch-backed up and down the railway-bridge, still ringing her bell … Then in front of her lay the long climb of the Tilling hill, and as the pace diminished she found her brake. She dismounted, and waited for Georgie. He had lost sight of her in the traffic, and followed her cautiously in icy expectation of finding her and that beautiful new bicycle flung shattered on the road. Then he had one glimpse of her swift swallow-flight up the steep incline of the railway-bridge. Thank God she was safe so far! He traversed it himself and then saw her a hundred yards ahead up the hill. Long before he reached her his impetus was exhausted, and he got off.

  ‘Don’t hurry, dear,’ she called to him in a trembling voice. ‘You were right, quite right to ride cautiously. Safety first always.’

  ‘I felt very anxious about you,’ said Georgie, panting as he joined her. ‘You oughtn’t to have gone so fast. You deserve to be summoned for dangerous riding.’

  A vision, vague and bright, shot through Lucia’s brain. She could not conceive a more enviable piece of publicity than, at her age, to be summoned for so athletic a feat. It was punishable, no doubt, by law, but like a crime passionel, what universal admiration it would excite! What a dashing Mayor!

  ‘I confess I was going very fast,’ she said, ‘but I felt I had such complete control of my machine. And so exhilarating. I don’t suppose anybody has ever ridden so fast down Landgate Street. Now, if you’re rested, shall we go on?’

  They had a long but eminently prudent ride, and after lunch a well-earned siesta. Lucia, reposing on the sofa in the garden-room, was awakened by Grosvenor’s entry from a frightful nightmare that she was pedalling for all she was worth down Beachy Head into the arms of a policeman on the shore.

  ‘Inspector Morrison, ma’am,’ said Grosvenor. ‘He’ll call again if not convenient.’

  Nightmare vanished: the vague vision grew brighter. Was it possible? …

  ‘Certainly, at once,’ she said springing up and Inspector Morrison entered.

  ‘Sorry to disturb Your Worship,’ he said, ‘but one of my men has reported that about 11 a.m. to-day a new bicycle with the arms of Tilling on the tool-bag was ridden at a dangerous speed by a female down Landgate Street. He made inquiries at the bicycle-shop and found that a similar machine was sent to your house yesterday. I therefore ask your permission to question your domestics –’

  ‘Quite right to apply to me, Inspector,’ said Lucia. ‘You did your duty. Certainly I will sign the summons.’

  ‘But we don’t know who it was yet, ma’am. I should like to ask your servants to account for their whereabouts at 11 a.m.’

  ‘No need to ask them, Inspector,’ said Lucia. ‘I was the culprit. Please send the summons round here and I will sign it.’

  ‘But, Your Worship –’

  Lucia was desperately afraid that the Inspector might wriggle out of summoning the Mayor and that the case would never come into Court. She turned a magisterial eye on him.

  ‘I will not have one law for the rich and another for the poor in Tilling,’ she said. ‘I was riding at a dangerous speed. It was very thoughtless of me, and I must suffer for it. I ask you to proceed with the case in the ordinary course.’

  This one appearance of Lucia and Georgie doing their shopping on bicycles had been enough to kindle the spark of emulation in the breasts of the more mature ladies of Tilling. It looked so lissom, so gaily adolescent to weave your way in and out of traffic and go for a spin in the country, and surely if Lucia could, they could also. Her very casualness made it essential to show her that there was nothing remarkable about her unexpected feat. The bicycle-shop was besieged with inquirie
s for machines on hire and instructors. The Padre and Evie were the first in the field, and he put off his weekly visit to the workhouse that afternoon from half-past two till half-past three, and they hired the two bicycles which Lucia and Georgie no longer needed. Diva popped in next, and was chagrined to find that the only lady’s bicycle was already bespoken, so she engaged it for an hour on the following morning. Georgie that day did quite complicated shopping alone, for Lucia was at a committee meeting at the Town Hall. She rode there – a distance of a hundred and fifty yards to save time, but the gain was not very great, for she had to dismount twice owing to the narrow passage between posts for the prevention of vehicular traffic. Georgie, having returned from his shopping, joined her at the Town Hall when her meeting was over, and, with brakes fully applied, they rode down into the High Street, en route for another dash into the country. Susan’s Royce was drawn up at the bicycle-shop.

  ‘Georgie, I shan’t have a moment’s peace,’ said Lucia, ‘until I know whether Susan has ambitions too. I must just pop in.’

  Both the Wyses were there. Algernon was leaning over Susan’s shoulder as she studied a catalogue of the newest types of tricycle …

  The Mayoress alone remained scornful and aloof. Looking out from her window one morning, she observed Diva approaching very slowly up the trafficless road that ran past Grebe buttressed up by Georgie’s late instructor, who seemed to have some difficulty in keeping her perpendicular. She hurried to the garden-gate, reaching it just as Diva came opposite.

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ she said. ‘Sorry to see that you’re down with it, too.’

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ echoed Diva, with her eyes glued to the road in front of her. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.’

  ‘But is it wise to take such strenuous exercise?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘A great strain surely on both of you.’

  ‘Not a bit of a strain,’ called Diva over her shoulder. ‘And my instructor says I shall soon get on ever so quick.’