The Complete Mapp & Lucia

by E. F. Benson

  She gave a croak of laughter and tickled the crab…

  “Will he eat the steak, do you think?” she went on. “Is he not lively? I went to the shop of Mr. Hopkins, who was not there, because he was engaged with Miss Coles. And was that not Miss Coles last night at my brother’s? The one who spat in the fire when nobody but I was looking? You are enchanting at Tilling. What is Mr. Hopkins doing with Miss Coles? Do they kiss? But your market basket: that disappoints me, for Algernon said you had the biggest market-basket of all. I bought the biggest I could find: is it as big as yours?”

  Miss Mapp’s head was in a whirl. The Contessa said in the loudest possible voice all that everybody else only whispered; she displayed (in her basket) all that everybody else covered up with thick layers of paper. If Miss Mapp had only guessed that the Contessa would have a market-basket, she would have paraded the High Street with a leg of mutton protruding from one end and a pair of Wellington boots from the other… But who could have suspected that a Contessa…

  Black thoughts succeeded. Was it possible that Mr. Wyse had been satirical about the affairs of Tilling? If so, she wished him nothing worse than to be married to Susan. But a playful face must be put, for the moment, on the situation.

  “Too lovely of you, dear Contessa,” she said. “May we go marketing together to-morrow, and we will measure the size of our baskets? Such fun I have, too, laughing at the dear people in Tilling. But what thrilling news this morning about our sweet Susan and your dear brother, though of course I knew it long ago.”

  “Indeed! how was that?” said the Contessa quite sharply.

  Miss Mapp was “nettled” at her tone.

  “Oh, you must allow me two eyes,” she said, since it was merely tedious to explain how she had seen them from behind a curtain kissing in the garden. “Just two eyes.”

  “And a nose for scent,” remarked the Contessa very genially.

  This was certainly coarse, though probably Italian. Miss Mapp’s opinion of the Contessa fluctuated violently like a barometer before a storm and indicated “Changeable”.

  “Dear Susan is such an intimate friend,” she said.

  The Contessa looked at her very fixedly for a moment, and then appeared to dismiss the matter.

  “My crab, my steak,” she said. “And where does your nice Captain, no, Major Flint live? I have a note to leave on him, for he has asked me to tea all alone, to see his tiger skins. He is going to be my flirt while I am in Tilling, and when I go he will break his heart, but I will have told him who can mend it again.”

  “Dear Major Benjy!” said Miss Mapp, at her wits’ end to know how to deal with so feather-tongued a lady. “What a treat it will be to him to have you to tea. To-day, is it?”

  The Contessa quite distinctly winked behind her eyeglass, which she had put up to look at Diva, who whirled by on the other side of the street.

  “And if I said ‘To-day’,” she remarked, “you would—what is it that that one says”—and she indicated Diva—”yes, you would pop in, and the good Major would pay no attention to me. So if I tell you I shall go to-day, you will know that it is a lie, you clever Miss Mapp, and so you will go to tea with him to-morrow and find me there. Bene! Now where is his house?”

  This was a sort of scheming that had never entered into Miss Mapp’s life, and she saw with pain how shallow she had been all these years. Often and often she had, when inquisitive questions were put her, answered them without any strict subservience to truth, but never had she thought of confusing the issues like this. If she told Diva a lie, Diva probably guessed it was a lie, and acted accordingly, but she had never thought of making it practically impossible to tell whether it was a lie or not. She had no more idea when she walked back along the High Street with the Contessa swinging her basket by her side, whether that lady was going to tea with Major Benjy to-day or to-morrow or when, than she knew whether the crab was going to eat the beefsteak.

  “There’s his house,” she said, as they paused at the dentist’s corner, “and there’s mine next it, with the little bow-window of my garden-room looking out on to the street. I hope to welcome you there, dear Contessa, for a tiny game of bridge and some tea one of these days very soon. What day do you think? To-morrow?”

  (Then she would know if the Contessa was going to tea with Major Benjy to-morrow… unfortunately the Contessa appeared to know that she would know it, too.) “My flirt!” she said. “Perhaps I may be having tea with my flirt to-morrow.”

  Better anything than that.

  “I will ask him, too, to meet you,” said Miss Mapp, feeling in some awful and helpless way that she was playing her adversary’s game. “Adversary?” did she say to herself? She did. The inscrutable Contessa was “up to” that too.

  “I will not amalgamate my treats,” she said. “So that is his house! What a charming house! How my heart flutters as I ring the bell!”

  Miss Mapp was now quite distraught. There was the possibility that the Contessa might tell Major Benjy that it was time he married, but on the other hand she was making arrangements to go to tea with him on an unknown date, and the hero of amorous adventures in India and elsewhere might lose his heart again to somebody quite different from one whom he could hope to marry. By daylight the dear Contessa was undeniably plain: that was something, but in these short days, tea would be conducted by artificial light, and by artificial light she was not so like a rabbit. What was worse was that by any light she had a liveliness which might be mistaken for wit, and a flattering manner which might be taken for sincerity. She hoped men were not so easily duped as that, and was sadly afraid that they were. Blind fools!

  The number of visits that Miss Mapp made about tea-time in this week before Christmas to the post-box at the corner of the High Street, with an envelope in her hand containing Mr. Hopkins’s bill for fish (and a postal order enclosed), baffles computation. Naturally, she did not intend, either by day or night, to risk being found again with a blank unstamped envelope in her hand, and the one enclosing Mr. Hopkins’s bill and the postal order would have passed scrutiny for correctness, anywhere. But fair and calm as was the exterior of that envelope, none could tell how agitated was the hand that carried it backwards and forwards until the edges got crumpled and the inscription clouded with much fingering. Indeed, of all the tricks that Miss Mapp had compassed for others, none was so sumptuously contrived as that in which she had now entangled herself.

  For these December days were dark, and in consequence not only would the Contessa be looking her best (such as it was) at tea-time, but from Miss Mapp’s window it was impossible to tell whether she had gone to tea with him on any particular afternoon, for there had been a strike at the gas-works, and the lamp at the corner, which, in happier days, would have told all, told nothing whatever. Miss Mapp must therefore trudge to the letter-box with Mr. Hopkins’s bill in her hand as she went out, and (after a feint of posting it) with it in her pocket as she came back, in order to gather from the light in the windows, from the sound of conversation that would be audible as she passed close beneath them, whether the Major was having tea there or not, and with whom. Should she hear that ringing laugh which had sounded so pleasant when she revoked, but now was so sinister, she had quite determined to go in and borrow a book or a tiger-skin—anything. The Major could scarcely fail to ask her to tea, and, once there, wild horses should not drag her away until she had outstayed the other visitor. Then, as her malady of jealousy grew more feverish, she began to perceive, as by the ray of some dreadful dawn, that lights in the Major’s room and sounds of elfin laughter were not completely trustworthy as proofs that the Contessa was there. It was possible, awfully possible, that the two might be sitting in the firelight, that voices might be hushed to amorous whisperings, that pregnant smiles might be taking the place of laughter. On one such afternoon, as she came back from the letter-box with patient Mr. Hopkins’s overdue bill in her pocket, a wild certainty seized her, when she saw how closely the curtains were drawn, and how st
ill it seemed inside his room, that firelight dalliance was going on.

  She rang the bell, and imagined she heard whisperings inside while it was being answered. Presently the light went up in the hall, and the Major’s Mrs. Dominic opened the door.

  “The Major is in, I think, isn’t he, Mrs. Dominic?” said Miss Mapp, in her most insinuating tones.

  “No, miss; out,” said Dominic uncompromisingly. (Miss Mapp wondered if Dominic drank.) “Dear me! How tiresome, when he told me—” said she, with playful annoyance. “Would you be very kind, Mrs. Dominic, and just see for certain that he is not in his room? He may have come in.”

  “No, miss, he’s out,” said Dominic, with the parrot-like utterance of the determined liar. “Any message?”

  Miss Mapp turned away, more certain than ever that he was in and immersed in dalliance. She would have continued to be quite certain about it, had she not, glancing distractedly down the street, caught sight of him coming up with Captain Puffin.

  Meantime she had twice attempted to get up a cosy little party of four (so as not to frighten the Contessa) to play bridge from tea till dinner, and on both occasions the Faradiddleony (for so she had become) was most unfortunately engaged. But the second of these disappointing replies contained the hope that they would meet at their marketings to-morrow morning, and though poor Miss Mapp was really getting very tired with these innumerable visits to the post-box, whether wet or fine, she set forth next morning with the hopes anyhow of finding out whether the Contessa had been to tea with Major Flint, or on what day she was going… There she was, just opposite the post office, and there—oh, shame!—was Major Benjy on his way to the tram, in light-hearted conversation with her. It was a slight consolation that Captain Puffin was there too.

  Miss Mapp quickened her steps to a little tripping run.

  “Dear Contessa, so sorry I am late,” she said. “Such a lot of little things to do this morning. (Major Benjy! Captain Puffin!) Oh, how naughty of you to have begun your shopping without me!”

  “Only been to the grocer’s,” said the Contessa. “Major Benjy has been so amusing that I haven’t got on with my shopping at all. I have written to Cecco, to say that there is no one so witty.”

  (Major Benjy! thought Miss Mapp bitterly, remembering how long it had taken her to arrive at that. And “witty”. She had not arrived at that yet.) “No, indeed!” said the Major. “It was the Contessa, Miss Mapp, who has been so entertaining.”

  “I’m sure she would be,” said Miss Mapp, with an enormous smile. “And, oh, Major Benjy, you’ll miss your tram unless you hurry, and get no golf at all, and then be vexed with us for keeping you. You men always blame us poor women.”

  “Well, upon my word, what’s a game of golf compared with the pleasure of being with the ladies?” asked the Major, with a great fat bow.

  “I want to catch that tram,” said Puffin quite distinctly, and Miss Mapp found herself more nearly forgetting his inebriated insults than ever before.

  “You poor Captain Puffin,” said the Contessa, “you shall catch it. Be off, both of you, at once. I will not say another word to either of you. I will never forgive you if you miss it. But to-morrow afternoon, Major Benjy.”

  He turned round to bow again, and a bicycle luckily (for the rider) going very slowly, butted softly into him behind.

  “Not hurt?” called the Contessa. “Good! Ah, Miss Mapp, let us get to our shopping! How well you manage those men! How right you are about them! They want their golf more than they want us, whatever they may say. They would hate us, if we kept them from their golf. So sorry not to have been able to play bridge with you yesterday, but an engagement. What a busy place Tilling is. Let me see! Where is the list of things that Figgis told me to buy? That Figgis! A roller-towel for his pantry, and some blacking for his boots, and some flannel I suppose for his fat stomach. It is all for Figgis. And there is that swift Mrs. Plaistow. She comes like a train with a red light in her face and wheels and whistlings. She talks like a telegram—Good morning, Mrs. Plaistow.”

  “Enjoyed my game of bridge, Contessa,” panted Diva. “Delightful game of bridge yesterday.”

  The Contessa seemed in rather a hurry to reply. But long before she could get a word out Miss Mapp felt she knew what had happened…

  “So pleased,” said the Contessa quickly. “And now for Figgis’s towels, Miss Mapp. Ten and sixpence apiece, he says. What a price to give for a towel! But I learn housekeeping like this, and Cecco will delight in all the economies I shall make. Quick, to the draper’s, lest there should be no towels left.”

  In spite of Figgis’s list, the Contessa’s shopping was soon over, and Miss Mapp having seen her as far as the corner, walked on, as if to her own house, in order to give her time to get to Mr. Wyse’s, and then fled back to the High Street. The suspense was unbearable: she had to know without delay when and where Diva and the Contessa had played bridge yesterday. Never had her eye so rapidly scanned the movement of passengers in that entrancing thoroughfare in order to pick Diva out, and learn from her precisely what had happened… There she was, coming out of the dyer’s with her basket completely filled by a bulky package, which it needed no ingenuity to identify as the late crimson-lake. She would have to be pleasant with Diva, for much as that perfidious woman might enjoy telling her where this furtive bridge-party had taken place, she might enjoy even more torturing her with uncertainty. Diva could, if put to it, give no answer whatever to a direct question, but, skilfully changing the subject, talk about something utterly different.

  “The crimson-lake,” said Miss Mapp, pointing to the basket. “Hope it will turn out well, dear.”

  There was rather a wicked light in Diva’s eyes.

  “Not crimson-lake,” she said. “Jet-black.”

  “Sweet of you to have it dyed again, dear Diva,” said Miss Mapp. “Not very expensive, I trust?”

  “Send the bill into you, if you like,” said Diva.

  Miss Mapp laughed very pleasantly.

  “That would be a good joke,” she said. “How nice it is that the dear Contessa takes so warmly to our Tilling ways. So amusing she was about the commissions Figgis had given her. But a wee bit satirical, do you think?”

  This ought to put Diva in a good temper, for there was nothing she liked so much as a few little dabs at somebody else. (Diva was not very good-natured.) “She is rather satirical,” said Diva.

  “Oh, tell me some of her amusing little speeches!” said Miss Mapp enthusiastically. “I can’t always follow her, but you are so quick! A little coarse too, at times, isn’t she? What she said the other night when she was playing Patience, about the queens and kings, wasn’t quite—was it? And the toothpick.”

  “Yes. Toothpick,” said Diva.

  “Perhaps she has bad teeth,” said Miss Mapp; “it runs in families, and Mr. Wyse’s, you know—We’re lucky, you and I.”

  Diva maintained a complete silence, and they had now come nearly as far as her door. If she would not give the information that she knew Miss Mapp longed for, she must be asked for it, with the uncertain hope that she would give it then.

  “Been playing bridge lately, dear?” asked Miss Mapp.

  “Quite lately,” said Diva.

  “I thought I heard you say something about it to the Contessa. Yesterday, was it? Whom did you play with?”

  Diva paused, and, when they had come quite to her door, made up her mind.

  “Contessa, Susan, Mr. Wyse, me,” she said.

  “But I thought she never played with Mr. Wyse,” said Miss Mapp.

  “Had to get a four,” said Diva. “Contessa wanted her bridge. Nobody else.”

  She popped into her house.

  There is no use in describing Miss Mapp’s state of mind, except by saying that for the moment she quite forgot that the Contessa was almost certainly going to tea with Major Benjy to-morrow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Peace on earth and mercy mild,” sang Miss Mapp, holding her head back wit
h her uvula clearly visible. She sat in her usual seat close below the pulpit, and the sun streaming in through a stained glass window opposite made her face of all colours, like Joseph’s coat. Not knowing how it looked from outside, she pictured to herself a sort of celestial radiance coming from within, though Diva, sitting opposite, was reminded of the iridescent hues observable on cold boiled beef. But then, Miss Mapp had registered the fact that Diva’s notion of singing alto was to follow the trebles at the uniform distance of a minor third below, so that matters were about square between them. She wondered between the verses if she could say something very tactful to Diva, which might before next Christmas induce her not to make that noise…

  Major Flint came in just before the first hymn was over, and held his top-hat before his face by way of praying in secret, before he opened his hymn-book. A piece of loose holly fell down from the window-ledge above him on the exact middle of his head, and the jump that he gave was, considering his baldness, quite justifiable. Captain Puffin, Miss Mapp was sorry to see, was not there at all. But he had been unwell lately with attacks of dizziness, one of which had caused him, in the last game of golf that he had played, to fall down on the eleventh green and groan. If these attacks were not due to his lack of perseverance, no right-minded person could fail to be very sorry for him.

  There was a good deal more peace on earth as regards Tilling than might have been expected considering what the week immediately before Christmas had been like. A picture by Miss Coles (who had greatly dropped out of society lately, owing to her odd ways) called “Adam”, which was certainly Mr. Hopkins (though no one could have guessed) had appeared for sale in the window of a dealer in pictures and curios, but had been withdrawn from public view at Miss Mapp’s personal intercession and her revelation of whom, unlikely as it sounded, the picture represented. The unchivalrous dealer had told the artist the history of its withdrawal, and it had come to Miss Mapp’s ears (among many other things) that quaint Irene had imitated the scene of intercession with such piercing fidelity that her servant, Lucy-Eve, had nearly died of laughing. Then there had been clandestine bridge at Mr. Wyse’s house on three consecutive days, and on none of these occasions was Miss Mapp asked to continue the instruction which she had professed herself perfectly willing to give to the Contessa. The Contessa, in fact—there seemed to be no doubt about it—had declared that she would sooner not play bridge at all than play with Miss Mapp, because the effort of not laughing would put an unwarrantable strain on those muscles which prevented you from doing so… Then the Contessa had gone to tea quite alone with Major Benjy, and though her shrill and senseless monologue was clearly audible in the street as Miss Mapp went by to post her letter again, the Major’s Dominic had stoutly denied that he was in, and the notion that the Contessa was haranguing all by herself in his drawing-room was too ridiculous to be entertained for a moment… . And Diva’s dyed dress had turned out so well that Miss Mapp gnashed her teeth at the thought that she had not had hers dyed instead. With some green chiffon round the neck, even Diva looked quite distinguished—for Diva.