Wigs on the Green

by Nancy Mitford

  The crumb of comfort, however, was most unexpectedly succeeded by the contents of a whole baker’s shop.

  ‘Mrs Lace is nuts about you, old boy. She can’t think of anything else.’

  Noel still suspected a trap. Walking warily, he said: ‘I don’t believe she is at all. She never shows it when she is with me, anyway.’

  ‘My dear old boy, you are such a shocking bad psychologist. Can’t you realize that Mrs Lace is one of those shy, retiring little women who must have all the running made for them? Haven’t you noticed, for one thing, how reserved she is?’

  Even the love-blinded Noel had not quite noticed this. He was only too prepared, however, to believe it.

  ‘Never mind,’ continued Jasper, ‘I think everything should be all right now. I’ve done a lot of work for you today, old boy. You should be grateful to me.’

  ‘What work?’ asked Noel, dubiously.

  ‘To begin with I praised you up to the skies, said you had an exceedingly noble character, and so on. But what is even more important, I made an assignation for you.’

  ‘Not with Anne-Marie?’

  ‘Who else? You are to meet her in a place where you will be quite undisturbed for as long as you wish – a romantic place, a place which might have been (probably was) designed for lovers’ meetings. There she will be awaiting your declaration at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Where is it then?’ cried Noel, who was duly thrown, as Jasper had intended that he should be, into a fever of excited anticipation. ‘Quickly, tell me, Jasper, where?’

  Jasper did not reply. He appeared to have gone off into a reverie and sat gazing into the middle distance, a dreamy expression on his face.

  ‘Jasper – where is this place, damn you?’

  ‘By the way, old boy,’ said Jasper, suddenly coming back to earth again, ‘I could do with ten pounds.’

  ‘I dare say you could,’ said Noel.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Noel peevishly, ‘blackmail?’

  ‘I say, hold on old boy, that’s not a very polite word is it? Supposing we called it commission? After all, a chap must live you know.’

  ‘I really can’t see why,’ said Noel.

  Presently however, he pulled out a cheque-book and proceeded with bad grace to scribble a cheque for ten pounds. He then screwed it up in a ball and threw it at Jasper’s head. Jasper smoothed it out carefully and read it. ‘It’s exceedingly untidy,’ he said, ‘but I dare say it will do.

  ‘Temple by lake near Chalford Old Manor. You approach it hooting like an owl to prove bona fide; if all is O.K. Mrs Lace replies with a merry laugh. Let’s go back to our pub, shall we, and find out what those girls have been up to all the afternoon.’

  Lady Marjorie and Mrs St Julien, however, made no further appearance that evening. They dined, as usual, in their private sitting-room, but after dinner they did not, as was their custom, wander out into the garden to breathe the cool night air before going to bed. They remained in their sitting-room, and were evidently talking nineteen to the dozen. Jasper spent much of his evening with his ear glued to the keyhole, thus balking the detectives who were wandering about like ghosts, apparently with the same intention.

  When, very much later than usual, Mrs St Julien retired to her own room, she was slightly startled to notice a figure tucked up comfortably in her bed. It was Jasper’s.

  ‘Quite all right,’ he said. ‘Those boys saw me go into Lady Marjorie’s room – I went in there first and then climbed round by the window. Pathetically easy to deceive, dicks are, and as it’s you they’re after it can’t matter to her.’

  Poppy St Julien sat down on the chair in front of her dressing-table and looked at him severely. ‘Now I wonder how you happen to know it’s me they’re after – it almost looks as though you must have been listening to my conversation with Marge just now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jasper, rearranging the pillows so that his head should be on a higher level.

  ‘You appear very ignorant of ordinary social conventions.’

  ‘Perhaps I prefer to ignore them.’

  Poppy began to brush her hair.

  ‘I thought,’ said Jasper, ‘by your tone of voice just now, that you seemed to be upset by Anthony St Julien’s behaviour. I am sorry.’

  Poppy continued to brush her hair.

  ‘He also prefers to ignore social conventions, it seems.’

  ‘He does,’ said Poppy gloomily; ‘but there’s some excuse for him, poor sweet. He’s in love.’

  ‘So am I in love.’

  ‘So you say. But you are such a liar, aren’t you? And I wish you wouldn’t drop cigarette ash into my bed.’

  ‘Give me an ash-tray then would you, darling Miss Smith? That soap-dish would do. Thanks awfully. Will you marry me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Silly’s my middle name. I asked you a question, however, and should like an answer.’

  ‘Please leave my room.’

  ‘Don’t be governessy.’

  ‘I want to undress.’

  ‘Undress then.’

  ‘Oh! damn you,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Now look here, Miss Smith darling,’ said Jasper, ‘do be sensible and listen to me for a minute. Anthony St Julien is an eel and he doesn’t want you any more because he lusts after strange débutantes, I am not an eel and I do want you, and I will never leave you for anybody else as long as I live. Now if you marry me everyone will be pleased, Anthony St Julien, his débutante, the detectives, and me. Doesn’t it seem an easy way to give pleasure all round?’

  ‘You can’t keep me,’ said Poppy, ‘in the comfort to which I have been accustomed.’

  ‘Same to you, my angel.’

  ‘I dare say, but wives aren’t expected to keep their husbands.’

  ‘I never could see why not. It seems so unfair.’

  ‘Not at all. The least the chaps can do is to provide for us financially when you consider that we women have all the trouble of pregnancy and so on.’

  ‘Well, us boys have hang overs don’t we? Comes to the same thing in the end.’

  ‘Anyway, the fact remains that I can’t keep you and you can’t keep me. You ought to be marrying Marge.’

  ‘I know. I would like a shot if I thought there was the smallest chance. Is there?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘There you are. I knew there wasn’t. Why raise my hopes? You see, looks like it’ll have to be you after all, darling Miss Smith. I can’t say I mind much. You are most awfully pretty you know.’

  ‘Jolly kind of you to say so,’ said Poppy, yawning. She began to undress.

  9

  The opening ceremony of Chalford head-quarters happened to fall upon the same day as that of a cocktail-party for which Mrs Lace had sent out invitations. As the one entertainment was billed to take place at 3.30 p.m. and the other not until 6 o’clock, it was evident that both could easily be attended. Anne-Marie’s party was ostensibly inaugurated to set in motion the machinery of the pageant. An organizing committee was to be elected and the allocation of minor rôles to be considered (the chief parts, those of George the Third and Queen Charlotte, had already been snapped up by Mrs Lace for herself and Noel). Actually all this was unnecessary. Jasper and Eugenia between them were getting on perfectly well with the arrangements, but it provided that for which Mrs Lace had been longing, namely, an excuse to show off to the neighbourhood her newly-acquired friends and lover.

  It was, of course, rather annoying to her that she would be obliged to preserve Marjorie’s incognito, and to refrain from whispered conjectures as to the identity of Noel; on the other hand, she considered that not even the assumed names of Foster and Jones entirely hid their intrinsic presentability, while Mr Aspect and Mrs St Julien were good fat fishes for her net. Besides, could she not look forward to that glorious day when she would be in the superior position of having ‘known all along’? When Chalford learnt at last w
hat greatness it had been harbouring in the shape of Noel, Chalford would see Mrs Lace in a dramatic light. People would be saying to each other: ‘You remember, last summer. He was staying at the Jolly Roger and called himself Noel Foster, and that was when he fell in love with her. And now, only think of it, they have eloped together. Of course one always knew she wouldn’t stay for long in this out-of-the-way place, the amazing thing is that she should ever have married such a dull bore —’

  Even supposing that this dream of elopement which now filled her days should never come true, it would be known that Mrs Lace had been the love of Noel’s life, and that although, for political or other reasons, he was unable to marry her, he still sent her a dried rose-leaf in a crested box once a year.

  She decided that she would always thereafter dress herself in deepest mourning for her widowed heart. It would be wonderful, too, whispering to her intimates: ‘I made him go back. He wished to give up all for me, but I could not allow that. He must have his career, do his duty, live his life. It is far better so. If I had allowed him to do as he wished he might have learnt in time to hate me; like this our love is fresh, eternal. No, my heart is broken, but I regret nothing.’ Mrs Lace’s imagination, which was vivid, ran away with her like this all the time.

  The party was also intended to provide an opportunity of showing Noel that he was not the only pebble on Mrs Lace’s beach; superfluous gesture, as poor Noel was already too firmly convinced that to see was to desire her. To this end the artistic Mr Leader and his colleagues were invited over from Rackenbridge, that local Athens which had, up to now, provided Anne-Marie with all her cultured conquests.

  The great day dawned with thunder in the air, and soon after breakfast there was thunder in the Lace’s drawing-room as well. Major Lace, filling up his pipe before setting out to examine a sick cow, remarked casually:

  ‘Isn’t it your binge today, Bella?’

  Anne-Marie winced at this. She objected to the use of her real name, despised the word ‘binge’, and considered that Major Lace ought to have known as well as she did that it was the great day.

  ‘I have asked a few people round at cocktail-time,’ she said, in her society voice. ‘Perhaps that’s what you’re thinking of?’

  ‘Splendid! I thought it was today all right. I ran into old George Wilkins yesterday at the Show, and told him to be sure and come along. Lucky thing I happened to remember about it. Why, he’ll simply be the life and soul of a party like that.’

  Anne-Marie froze on hearing this news. Then she flew into a passion. She refused to have Mr Wilkins at her party, he was quite unsuitable, an odious man, stupid and loutish. She hated him. She hated his red face, and Hubert knew that perfectly well, and Hubert had only asked him out of spite, in order to spoil everything for her. Everything. She burst into tears.

  Major Lace listened to these recriminations with an expression of bewilderment which was by degrees succeeded by one of intense disgust on his kind round face.

  ‘You’re such a little snob, my dear,’ he said, as soon as he was able to get a word in, ‘I know what you’re thinking, that those new grand friends of yours won’t like poor old George Wilkins – eh? Well, as it happens you’re wrong there, because I’m prepared to bet a large sum that they will. He’s the most amusing fellow I’ve ever come across, and what’s more, everybody likes old Wilkins – except you.’

  ‘I’m not a snob,’ cried Mrs Lace, angrily. ‘If I were a snob should I be friends with penniless artists like Leslie Leader? On the contrary, many people would think I was too much the other way – not particular enough. It is not snobbish to demand certain qualities in one’s acquaintances – and personally I prefer to mix with people of culture. I dislike vulgarity of mind. However, all this is beside the point. I shall be delighted for you to invite Mr Wilkins any other time. At this particular party it will be quite impossible to have him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the reasons I have given you. He is an unsuitable person, so unsoigné too. And for another thing, Leslie Leader would leave the house if he came. He absolutely hates him.’

  ‘Dear, dear, does he now? Mr Leader goes up in my estimation. I never thought that white slug had the guts to hate anybody. Still I think I should risk it, rather awkward to put Leader off at the last minute like this.’

  ‘Naturally there will be no question of doing that. I am going to ring up Mr Wilkins now this minute and tell him you have made a mistake.’

  ‘Anne-Marie, you can do that if you like, but I warn you that I shan’t turn up at your blasted party unless Wilkins does,’ said Major Lace, setting his jaw.

  ‘Nonsense, Hubert, of course you’ll have to come. It would look very odd if you didn’t, and besides, who’s to mix the cocktails?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn who mixes the cocktails. Leader can mix them.’

  ‘You know he can’t; he’s teetotal.’

  ‘He would be. Anyway if I’m to come Wilkins must come, you can take it or leave it old girl.’ So saying, Major Lace stumped off to his cow-byres.

  Mrs Lace spent much of the morning in tears of rage. During luncheon she uttered no word, a fact which Major Lace apparently never noticed, as he went on as usual, chatting about John’s disease, and the tubercular content of a pint of milk. He did not mention Mr Wilkins or the party, and the moment he had swallowed his food he went off again. Arrangements for the party occupied Anne-Marie’s afternoon, but gave her little satisfaction. Even the arrival of Mr Leader, who came, as he had promised that he would, to decorate her drawing-room with whitewashed brambles and cellophane, failed to improve her temper.

  While she was changing her dress, however, her spirits began to rise, and by the time that the first guests had appeared she became positively gay once more. She enjoyed entertaining more than anything else on earth, and was, considering her inexperience, a good enough hostess, unflagging in her zeal to please.

  Neighbour after neighbour now arrived, husbands, wives, daughters, and an occasional son home on leave or down from Oxford. They were all jolly friendly, dull people, and were suitably startled by Anne-Marie’s silver lamé cocktail-trousers and heavy make-up. The young men from Rackenbridge struck, she considered, exactly the right note of Bohemian négligé in their shrimp trousers and ‘Aertex’ shirts open at the neck. The scene, in fact, was now set for the entry of Mrs Lace’s new friends. Anxiously she began to keep one eye on the drive, and for a whole hour she played Pagliacci, chatting and laughing with a breaking heart. For the new friends did not appear.

  When finally they did turn up, fearfully late, and accompanied by a stockingless Eugenia, they all seemed to be in the last stages of exhaustion. ‘We are quite worn out, you see,’ Jasper explained politely, ‘by Eugenia’s party. It was an absolute riot from beginning to end. We think she is a genius Eugenia, Eugenius, E.U.G.E.N.I.A. Eugenia.’

  ‘It was too lovely,’ said Lady Marjorie, who appeared far less languid than usual. She had colour in her cheeks and her eyes shone. ‘But why didn’t you come, Mrs Lace; you can’t imagine what a lovely party it was.’

  ‘We sang Jackshirt hymns for hours outside the head-quarters,’ said Poppy. ‘“Onward Union Jackshirts” – D’you know that one; shall we teach it you, another time perhaps? Then we went for a wonderful march with a band playing and we each carried a Union Jack. Marge and I have both joined up. The Comrades were heaven, so beautiful-looking.’

  They all fell into chairs and fanned themselves. Poppy and Marjorie looked anything but smart London ladies, calculated to impress local housewives. Eugenia, her eye suddenly lighting upon Mr Leader pointed him out to Poppy, saying in a stage whisper, ‘He’s a well-known Pacifist. Shall we give him Union Jackshirt justice?’

  ‘Not now,’ Poppy whispered back, ‘we’re all much too tired.’

  A sort of blight now began to fall on Mrs Lace’s party. It was dreadful for her because nobody was behaving in the way she had planned they should. Most of the neighbours had gone home
to their early dinners and those that remained formed little knots in the garden, talking to each other about sport or to Major Lace about the iniquities of the Milk Marketing Board. The Rackenbridge young men hung round the bar eating and drinking all they could lay their hands on, while her new friends were being in no way wonderful, but merely lay about the place in attitudes of extreme debility.

  ‘We are so tired,’ they reiterated apologetically, ‘you should have seen what a distance we marched, it was terrible. In this heat too, whew!’

  Poppy, who had a conscience about these things, did whisper in Jasper’s ear that she thought they should mingle a bit more. Jasper replied, ‘Mingle then,’ but nothing happened.

  Mrs Lace brought up Mr Leader and introduced him all round, saying, ‘It was Leslie who did these wonderful decorations for me. He is a Surréaliste you know.’

  Poppy said, politely, ‘Oh! how interesting. Aren’t you the people who like intestines and pulling out babies’ eyes?’

  Jasper said that he had once written a play, the whole action of which took place inside Jean Cocteau’s stomach. ‘Unfortunately I sold the film rights,’ he added, ‘otherwise you could have had them. The film was put on in Paris and many people had to leave the Jockey Club and stop being Roman Catholics because of it. I was pleased.’

  Eugenia looked gloomily at Mr Leader, and said in a menacing voice, ‘You should see the inside of the new Social Unionist head-quarters.’

  ‘It’s even more exciting than the inside of Jean Cocteau’s stomach,’ added Jasper.

  After these sallies conversation died, and poor Mr Leader presently wandered away. Noel now lay back and put a newspaper over his face – nobody could have supposed, to see him, that he was madly in love with his hostess, nor were her guests at all likely to go home with the impression that between these two people was undying romance. Mrs Lace looked at him in despair.