17
It was a perfect summer day. Morning sun blazed into the windows of the Jolly Roger, but quite failed to awaken the occupants. As soon as they felt perfectly confident that this fine weather was an indisputable fact, they had all made up for a wakeful night by sinking into happy, carefree slumber. The more the sun shone the sounder they slept. It was not until nearly eleven o’clock, when Eugenia and Vivian Jackson appeared on Chalford green, that they were finally aroused by a hideous din, compounded of shouting, neighing, and the cracking of a whip. Sleepy faces appeared, one by one, in four windows.
‘Hail! and arise, Union Jackshirt Comrades!’ cried Eugenia. ‘I don’t know how you could still be in bed on such a day – I myself have been out since dawn. There is much work for all to do in Chalford Park – I command you, as your district leader, to follow me there without delay.’ She dragged Vivian Jackson’s head right round, whereupon he reared twice and gave several tremendous buck-jumps, after which he galloped away, while Eugenia, sitting like a rock, sang at the top of her voice, ‘Land of Union Jackshirts, Mother of the Flag’.
Poppy was the first to be ready. She abandoned her usual post in the battle of the bathroom, having had the wily idea that it might be possible to take a hot, deep bath in Chalford House whilst dressing for the pageant. She came downstairs delighted at having thus stolen a march on the others. On the hall table she saw, for the first time since she had been at the Jolly Roger, a letter addressed to herself. And, what was more, addressed in the once loved and always familiar handwriting of Anthony St Julien. She felt a little giddy as she opened it.
It was, for him, a long letter, four pages of writing which began by being small and neat and which ended up large and untidy. In it he suggested that Poppy should return to him at once. He said that his house was getting very uncomfortable, the cook had given notice and the housemaid, although he reminded her daily, either could not or would not send the loose covers to be cleaned. He considered too, that the weekly books were over large. He then went on to say, towards the end of the second page, that no other woman would ever mean much in his life, and that if she was prepared to let bygones be bygones he would be glad to welcome her home again. No direct reference to the detectives or the débutante. Poppy wondered what she would do. Anthony St Julien was, after all, her husband, and she loved her little house in Chapel Street. She did not have to close her eyes in order to visualize her drawing-room with its trellis wallpaper, red plush curtains and satinwood furniture. It would be much harder to leave a dwelling to which she was singularly devoted, than a husband for whom devotion was now a thing of the past. In a position in which many women would be weighing an old loyalty against a new passion, she found herself wondering whether it would be possible to smuggle her writing-table out of the house, should she decide to throw in her lot with Mr Aspect. This indecision in no way troubled her, she felt sure that once the Grand Union Jackshirt Pageant and Garden Party was over she would with certainty know her own mind.
Noel also found a letter that morning. It was from one of the uncles and informed him that he should go to London as soon as might be, when an interview would be arranged for him with a Viennese banker who might be feeling disposed to offer him employment. He immediately sent off a telegram to the uncle saying that he would be in London the following day.
When all were ready, they packed into the motor car which kind Mr Birk had placed at their disposal, and were driven to Chalford Park. In and around the house a state of chaos reigned, it was hard to imagine that things would ever straighten themselves out. Workmen, Social Unionists, the Women’s Institute and a multitude of reporters were falling over each other outside, whilst inside, Miss Trant and Mrs Lace were engaged in a battle royal over dressing-rooms. Fourteen large bedrooms had been placed at their disposal for this purpose by Lady Chalford, and Mrs Lace was insisting that she would need, in order to dress those appearing in the Chalford episode, at least seven. As she was responsible for dressing twenty people, and as Miss Trant was expecting to have at least two hundred on her hands, it was felt that Mrs Lace’s demands were disproportionate. Finally, after a long and enraged argument, Mrs Lace was persuaded to make do with three rooms only. These she now proceeded to deck out with finery, laying dresses all over the beds and chairs, and covering the tables with accessories. Jasper and Poppy wandered in to have a look, and concluded that Mrs Lace had sat for too long at the feet of the Rackenbridge young men. Her ideas on dressing up were very modern.
‘I rather think,’ said Jasper, in one of his loud asides, ‘that these American-cloth kirtles, cardboard wigs and cellophane fichus are going to look very peculiar alongside the two hundred Dolly Varden and Dresden Shepherd dresses hired by darling Miss Trant from the Oxford costumier.’
‘I say, they are ugly,’ murmured Poppy, ‘have I really got to wear this monstrosity of a wig?’
‘It’s your own fault, darling, you wouldn’t take the trouble to get a dress for yourself and now you are at the mercy of Rackenbridge taste. Serves you right too.’
Lady Marjorie looked quite wild with excitement and ran about looking for Mr Wilkins, saying, ‘I can’t wait, I can’t wait.’ Mr Wilkins, however, had not yet appeared on the scene.
The morning passed in a flash.
Lady Chalford, who was thoroughly enjoying the unwonted bustle, begged that everybody would stay on for a cold luncheon, to which she had already invited the curator of Peersmont and his charges. The years seemed to have rolled away from her on this occasion; she looked like a young woman as she greeted her old friend the Duke of Driburgh and those two of his colleagues considered by the curator as suitable candidates for the day’s outing.
The duke, however, slipped away from her side as soon as he decently could and made a bee-line for Poppy, whom he embarrassed considerably with his attentions. When luncheon-time came he manoeuvred that she should sit next him, kept his knee clamped against hers during the entire meal and held her hand between the courses. When she tried to thank him for the tiara he ogled her fearfully and dropped a few mysterious hints.
‘How is Lord Rousham?’ she asked, to change the subject.
‘Off his diet, I am sorry to say. Won’t eat anything now, except the coco-nuts and bits of suet we put out for the tits. Gunnersbury is busy making a nesting box for him, meddling old idiot, he always has fussed over housing conditions, and so on. I’ve no patience with his silly Socialistic ideas; if a man likes to build his own nest, let him. Trade Unions have been the downfall of this country you mark my words, young lady.’
After luncheon the duke led Poppy into the recess of a window and proposed marriage to her.
‘But you’re married already, Duke,’ she cried, in order to gain time. There was a wild look in his eye which she did not altogether like.
‘Ah, you think I am old-fashioned, behind the times, eh, what? But I have been getting very modern in my outlook lately I can assure you, and I understand that nowadays it is perfectly usual to be engaged while one is still married. Damned sensible idea. Now I suggest that we should give old Maud all the evidence she wants and then we could nip round to a registry office. What do you say to that, little lady? There are lots more pretty toys hanging on the tree where that tiara came from, you know.’
‘That will be lovely,’ said Poppy, ‘and now, Duke –’
‘Call me Adolphus.’
‘And now, Adolphus, I am really rather busy. If you will excuse me I think I should be going. But I will see you again soon.’
‘And for good, little lady, for good,’ cried the amorous Adolphus, leering after her.
Poppy, who had nothing whatever to do for at least another hour (they had lunched early and very quickly), escaped next door into the library, where she could hide herself from her admirer behind jutting-out bookcases. She was rather pleased to see that the daily papers were there, neatly arranged on a large round leather-topped table, and taking up The Ti
mes she began to glance through it in a desultory manner. Almost the first thing to meet her eye was the name of Anthony St Julien’s débutante heading the list of marriage announcements; the girl was engaged to a well-known polo player.
Poppy now understood the eagerness with which Anthony St Julien wanted her back again; she felt sorry for him, but at the same time considered that his behaviour was unnecessarily crude. He might have waited for a day or two. At the same time she was rather grateful to him for having been so caddish, as now, whatever course she should decide to take, she would be not treating him otherwise than as he deserved. Her thoughts once more turned towards the writing-table. It was rather heavy, but she and Jasper between them could probably carry it out in the middle of the night.
Presently she was sought out by Lady Marjorie, who looked quite ghoulishly hideous in mauve panniers of American-cloth over a skirt of bright silver mackintosh. The wire-netting wig made for her by Mrs Lace had proved too small and very painful to wear, so she had cast it away, and borrowed instead a Dolly Varden one from Miss Trant. This was of very untidy white horse-hair, which stood up in a fuzzy aureole round her head; a corkscrew curl fell behind one ear, and became more of a corkscrew and less of a curl at every step she took. The wig was rather too large for Lady Marjorie and her own dark hair strayed out behind, in spite of innumerable hairpins.
‘Gosh!’ said Poppy, trying not to look horrified at this apparition, ‘dressed already?’
‘There’s no need to be, for ages yet, but I wanted to get it over. I’m really too excited to sit still and wait.’
‘I had to hide in here,’ said Poppy, ‘because that awful old duke pounced me. In fact, he went so far as to propose marriage.’
‘Hity-tity, awful old duke indeed. When I think of the way you always go on to me about Osborne. So I suppose you have accepted with pleasure – do I congratulate you, darling?’
‘My darling Marge – that old duke?’
‘Nonsense. He’s a very nice old duke, much nicer than that mountain of pomposity you want me to marry. Darling, do I look all right?’
‘Lovely, darling.’
‘That’s good. Because – you know – Mr Wilkins. I wanted to look quite my best on his account, the angel. Oh, dear! it does seem hard I can’t drive in the coach with him.’
‘Never mind, I really think you have a better chance of getting off with him like this, because you’ll be sitting next him for hours on the platform, and when the episodes are over, Noel is going to escort the Local Beauty round the Olde Englyshe Fayre. That’ll be your big opportunity.’
‘Oh, I am excited! I keep feeling quite cold and shivery. The Social Unionists ought to be here any minute now in their charabancs. Do come and dress, Poppy, I feel too shy to go and look for Mr Wilkins by myself.’
Presently, to the accompaniment of Union Jackshirt songs, cheers and yells, the Comrades began to arrive. They appeared to be in the wildest of good spirits as they were shepherded by their district leaders into Miss Trant’s dressing-rooms, where they proceeded to cover their Union Jack shirts with cotton brocade coats and sateen breeches, or cotton brocade panniers and sateen skirts, according to their sex. Made-up jabots of cheap lace were tied round their necks and frills of it sewn to their sleeves, but these did not fit very well and in most cases a few inches of red, white and blue were to be seen poking out. Jasper, hot and perspiring in one of Mrs Lace’s artistic rubber suits, was taking his duties as producer with the utmost seriousness. He dashed about, a grubby piece of paper in one hand and megaphone in the other, admonishing the various district leaders and trying to make sure that all the groups had arrived upon the scene. Finally he stood on a chair and addressed them all through his megaphone.
‘Now, boys,’ he said, ‘there are one or two little things I wish to mention. The dress-rehearsal on Monday did not go off too well. Nobody was dressed, and you could hardly have called it a rehearsal. However, that’s not going to stop us from doing splendidly this afternoon. Now, I want you all to try and enter into the spirit of the age – remember, you are in the eighteenth century from now on. When the coach drives up with King George and Queen Charlotte in it, I want you all to be lining the drive – give them a good rousing cheer, don’t yell and don’t give the Social Unionist salute. Let a few words be audible: ‘God bless His Majesty’; ‘Long live the House of Hanover’; ‘Queen Charlotte for ever’, and so on, and as the coach passes, fall on one knee. Those of you whose wigs are not sewn on to your hats might snatch them off, the hats, I mean, and wave them. Another important point – remember, you will have plenty of time to get into your places for the episodes while the King and Queen are alighting and hearing speeches of welcome. On Monday you all scrambled far too much; there was an appalling muddle. Now I will read over the list of the episodes again in their proper order, as I want to get it all clear:
‘Arrival of George III and Queen Charlotte (Union Jackshirt Wilkins and Mrs Lace).
‘Speech of Welcome by Lord Chalford (Union Jackshirt Noel Foster).
‘Answering speech by George III.
‘Pause, for Morris dancing.
‘First messenger arrives announcing the victory of Wolfe over French Pacifists at Quebec.
‘First Episode: Wolfe, while reading Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard” to his troops, is hit by a stray bullet and dies on a heap of straw. Rackenbridge brass band plays the “Dead March in Saul”.
‘Messenger arrives announcing the doings at the Boston Tea Party. Speech by George III “Leave our Great Empire then, vile democrats,” etc.
‘Second Episode: The Burghers of Boston, with halters round their necks, pour their tea on the ground and drink illicit whisky instead. Rackenbridge brass band does not play the “Dead March in Saul”, (as it did on Monday) but “Little Brown Jug Don’t I Love Thee”.
‘Messenger arrives announcing that Clive and Warren Hastings have disgraced themselves in India.
‘Third Episode: Clive and Warren Hastings, seated on an elephant, are surrounded by Nautch girls – (by the way, I hope the hind legs is here this afternoon, Miss Trant had to be them on Monday – Ah! Union Jackshirt Pierpont, good). Rackenbridge brass band plays “In a Persian Garden”.
‘Pause, for the ennobling of Pitt. Rackenbridge brass band plays “For he’s a jolly good fellow”.
‘Messenger arrives announcing the French Revolution. Rackenbridge brass band plays “Mademoiselle from Armentières”.
‘Another messenger arrives announcing the wounding of Nelson at the Canary Islands and his naval victory over French Pacifists.
‘Speech by George III. “God blew His breath and they were scattered”, etc.
‘Fourth Episode: Nelson, his telescope pressed to his blind eye, and staring at Lady Hamilton with his other one, has his arm blown off. Rackenbridge brass band plays “Every nice girl loves a sailor, every nice girl loves a tar”. Tableau of Lady Hamilton in one of her attitudes.
‘Messenger arrives announcing Death of Nelson.
‘Fifth Episode: Nelson dying on a heap of straw, Hardy kisses him. Speech by Nelson, “It is a far, far better thing I do”, etc. Nelson dies saying, “Look after pretty witty Emmie”. Rackenbridge brass band plays the “Dead March in Saul” again.
‘Final tableau: “The Exile of Napoleon”.
‘Rackenbridge brass band plays “God save the King”.
‘I hope that is all quite clear to you now,’ said Jasper, rather hoarsely, as he jumped down from his chair.
Meanwhile, the neighbourhood was turning up in force. Had T.P.O.F. only known it, her change of plans was to avail her nothing, and the very people whose presence beneath her roof was so obnoxious to her were all busily paying their shillings at the park gates. They were not only eager to enjoy this pageant, the advertisements of which had been so strangely worded, but most of them had long been immensely curious to see Eugenia, the unknown heiress, and the
by now almost legendary beauties of Chalford House. Large shining cars therefore sailed up the drive one after another, to be directed by Comrades to a rather soggy parking-place where they disgorged the infamous élite of the neighbourhood. They all laughed and chattered together, crying out that the house was a dream and wondering whether they should meet Eugenia; the weight of shame lay lightly upon their shoulders – they would have been surprised if they knew the violence of Lady Chalford’s feelings about them.
The hour of three was near at hand. Mrs Lace, resplendently 1927 in her gilded American-cloth dress and wig of paper-clips, had long ago disappeared with Mr Wilkins to a place behind the kitchen-garden, where the royal coach awaited them. The party of welcomers was gracefully posed round the front door, ready to greet the Sovereign and his Consort with elegant bows and curtsies; Beau Brummels, Scarlet Pimpernels and Lady Teezles lined the drive for as far as the eye could see, all agog to make a loyal eighteenth-century demonstration. The crowd of onlookers had assumed proportions such as nobody had dared to hope for.
A hush of expectation fell upon all.
‘Something awful is going to happen,’ said Jasper, nervously. ‘I know it.’
At last thrilling cheers were heard, the coach was evidently on its way. A shudder of excitement swept the crowd, all necks were craned to see the great arrival, all breaths were drawn in to swell the cheering which was coming ever nearer. Suddenly it wavered, lost heart and stopped. A noise like thunder was heard instead, punctuated by horrible thin shrieks, and the next moment the coach came crashing into sight with horses at full gallop and evidently quite out of control. Mrs Lace, screaming loudly, was attempting to throw herself out of a window, and was being forcibly restrained from doing so by Mr Wilkins. Both their wigs had fallen off.
The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford Page 53