by Tom Holt
And since, of course, there would be, he reflected, the job would be a sinecure, but attended with all the respect and dignity he so sorely lacked at the moment. A retired Major could be deprived of his coffee only too easily; a serving Lieutenant was an entirely different proposition....
‘I wonder if I can still get into my old uniform,’ he mused. ‘Should be able to—kept in trim after all, all that golf and walking that infernally long distance into town every day. I’ll go and try it on immediately.’
‘Better still, Benjy. Listen to this. I’ve had a letter from my cousin Herbert, my aunt Elizabeth’s grandson. The Lancashire branch of the family I seem to recall.’ (The letter was postmarked Liverpool.) ‘He is an officer in the Royal Air Force, he tells me, and he’s going to be stationed very near here, although he doesn’t say exactly where—oh Benjy, that must mean his work is top secret, some dear new fighter or something—and he hopes he may come and call on me. There! Isn’t that splendid news?’
Benjy had never met Cousin Herbert, of the Lancashire branch of the family (neither, in all honesty, had Elizabeth), but a fellow-soldier must be an ally.
‘Excellent, Liz. We’ll show Mrs. Pillson how troops ought to be entertained. Keeping morale up, eh?’ He winked broadly. Elizabeth smiled. ‘Yes, old girl, no stuffy music at Grebe. A good dinner, a glass of wine, a few rubbers of Bridge. That’s the stuff to—ah—give the troops.’
Elizabeth sensed danger here. The presence of troops at Grebe would not lead to any relaxation of the strict licensing laws that prevailed in the house. She decided, however, not to press the point. Nothing should mar the joy of this unexpected good fortune, following close upon the heels of disaster.
‘Go and try on your uniform, Benjy. Why, I declare I shall be quite in awe of you. And you must come with me to the High Street wearing it. Hurry up now.’
It is a sad fact of life that the material from which military uniforms are made tends to shrink alarmingly with the passage of the years, especially in those areas that encircle the waist. Even the belt and the boots seemed to have grown smaller, so that the only article of Benjy’s uniform which had not shrunk was the cap, which seemed, if anything, to have grown (or could it be that the Major’s locks had thinned as the rest of him had increased?). Another effect of the passage of time had been several attacks of moth. Nonetheless, Elizabeth decided he did look rather more striking in his uniform than in the antiquated tweeds that were his usual attire. Even so, it would be wise to allow certain repairs and alterations to be carried out before parading the new Officer Commanding, Tilling Home Guard, in the public streets; perhaps it would also be wise to conceal the news of Benjy’s new honour, and the imminent arrival of Cousin Herbert, so as to have her best cards in reserve. Lucia’s exposure was still to come. Should by any disastrous chance this manoeuvre backfire as well, she would have riches to fall back on. They were dining this evening at the Wyses (barley water as well as wine to be offered to the guests), with Diva, she recalled. She also recollected that the red-velvet evening gown, so recently a pair of shabby curtains but soon to be the envy of all female Tilling, was almost ready. In all the excitement of the last few days, with pinnacles of hope being built and turned into pits of despair, she had forgotten all about it and the sensation it must inevitably cause. With a broad smile, she shouldered her basket like a shield and went forth to do battle in the High Street.
There she met the Padre and wee wifie, triumphantly bearing a short string of sausages out of Mr. Worthington, the butcher’s. She bore down on them as the Spanish galliasses did upon the English ships of Drake.
‘Padre, dear, and Evie—a new hat surely, or is it the old straw hat with some pretty ribbons?—what a glorious day. It’s hard to believe in the horrid war when the sun is shining so brightly. Sausages,’ she said, and a bitter thought crossed her mind, ‘how very fortunate. Any left?’
‘No,’ said Evie.
‘How disappointing. I shall have to give my poor Benjy fish again today, if there’s any to be had.’
‘There’s nair a bittie o’ fish to be had in a’ Tilling, and there’s yon ocean, that teems wi’ the guid Lord’s plenty. War is a terrible thing, begorra.’ The Padre sighed.
‘Oh dear. Well, an omelette perhaps. So nourishing.’
‘And as for the wee eggies, ’twill be a miracle indeed if we see mair than wan or twa o’ they before Michaelmas Eve. ’Twud be a hard thing for our Lord to feed the five thousand now, for where would he be after gettin’ the three loaves and the twa wee fishes, with the shortage of food and the Government rations?’
Evie squeaked with horror at this blasphemy from the lips of her husband. Elizabeth smiled, for it was a perfect opening for her pitiful tale.
‘Oh, but Padre, you must consult our dear Lucia on that score. Why, she could feed the five thousand from the contents of her market-basket. A new miracle, perhaps, for did not my Benjy-boy and I dine at Mallards last night, and was there not orange soufflé set before us—and such an orange soufflé I declare I never have seen. So light! So dainty! I’m sure there must have been a lot of eggs in that, even if there are none in the shops.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Evie. ‘Orange soufflé!’ Her face lit up as if she had heard angel voices singing.
‘And salmon mousse to start, and a leg of lamb,’ continued Elizabeth. ‘What a banquet it was to be sure. Yet I wasn’t a bit surprised, for I had suspected as much.’
‘Did ye now, guidwife Mapp-Flint? And pray tell us why ye thought that.’
‘I was walking along this very street only the other day,’ said Elizabeth, warming to her theme, ‘when who should bump into me but our dear Lulu? And what do you suppose was in her basket, which fell to the ground and spilled itself at my feet? Three guesses? No? Very well, I see I shall have to tell you. There was a leg of lamb, and a pound of sugar, and a dozen eggs, and four oranges. Now, where do you suppose all these treasures came from? And no doubt you’ve been to dinner with dearest Lulu and her lovely officers, and had roast pork and lemon sorbet, or boiled beef and figs in honey, and where would they all have come from? It’s a puzzle to me, I must confess. My poor brains can’t fathom it, for poor Major Benjy and I have difficulty in feeding ourselves on the rations we receive.’
‘And what did she say?’ enquired Evie impatiently.
‘I asked her of course, and oh! the lucky thing, for she had received a parcel from America, no less, with all those gorgeous things in it. Fancy that now! But I thought to myself that parcel must have fairly raced across the Atlantic for the eggs and the lamb to have stayed so perfectly fresh.’
‘That’ll be it, then,’ said the Padre, relieved. He too had wondered how Lucia managed to procure such delicacies, and his conscience had troubled him with thoughts unworthy of his cloth. ‘ ’Tis a wonder how our valiant merchant seamen do cross those turbulent oceans like swift birdies. Now I’ll confess, Mistress Mapp-Flint, that I had ma wee doubts that mebbe some of those fine viands had been bought on the black market. Ah, but what it is to have so little faith in human nature.’
Elizabeth was stunned by this reply. In desperation she cast aside all pretence of ignorance.
‘And why, pray, should she unwrap her parcel and trot about the streets of Tilling with them in her basket? Answer me that.’
Both Evie and the Padre thought deeply for a moment, until a look of reverent illumination spread over the Padre’s face, as if yet another aspect of Lucia’s saintliness had been revealed to him.
‘Isna that no so like Mrs. Pillson the noo! Sithen she gets a wee·parcel o’ viands she canna rest until she’s been to the hospital or the home for the auld folks and shared her guid fortune wi’ the aged and infirm o’ Tilling. You enquire of her, Mrs. Mapp-Flint, and I’ve no doubt but that’ll turn out to be the cause of it. Mind you, from what I know o’ our Lucia, she wouldna dream o’ mentioning the fact. She is an example to us a’. ’
‘And so lucky,’ Elizabeth almost screamed, desperate to
counter these horrible allegations, ‘to have such good friends who send her so many parcels that she can virtually feed all Tilling and the Staffordshires as well. Why, there must be a whole fleet of ships standing by to rush provisions to her past the U-boats. Fancy!’
‘’Tis fortunate indeed she’s after being, and so like her tae share her fortune wi’ others, keeping no a morsel of it for hersen. What an inspiration to the parish.’
So profoundly inspired did Elizabeth appear to be that she hurried off down the street without a word, no doubt to devote the rest of her life to being worthy of such a fellow citizen.
It was with some trepidation that Diva rang the ponderous bell of Starling Cottage. The dusk was gathering in Porpoise Street, but not sufficiently to hide the evidence of her crime, which was literally all around her, for her rotund form was dressed in it. A large acreage of bottle-green crêpe marocaine to be exact, shaped into an evening-gown and topped with a white Bridge-coatee. The coupons for all this splendour, needless to say, had not originally been issued to Mrs. Godiva Plaistow. Torment had wracked her soul for the best part of a week, and she was sure that she had lost pounds of weight through sheer worry. In a mad, reckless moment she had listened, like Adam in the Garden of Eden, to the serpent-like temptations of her maid Janet’s nephew, who had offered her a sheaf of coupons for the gigantic sum of thirty shillings. But if Diva had a weakness (and she had more than one) it was for dress; those coupons were the passport to green pastures of crêpe marocaine and, being a weak and foolish old widow, she had (after a little haggling) succumbed. The horror of exposure had caused her to lie awake at night; the thought of wasting that stupendously elegant cloth had tortured her during the day. She had wracked her brains for some explanation: an old roll of material she had bought years ago and forgotten all about—no, for not a soul who knew her would believe that she could forget all about a roll of crêpe marocaine. An old dress, newly cleaned and refurbished—no, for who could have forgotten such a glorious creation? The very splendour of the garment would convict her. She pictured herself in a few weeks’ time, sewing not crepe marocaine in Tilling but mailbags in Holloway.
With a trembling heart she entered the drawing-room. There, in front of the broad fireplace, stood Mr. Wyse, dressed in a magnificent and undoubtedly new suit of mohair with a silk cummerbund, while his wife was a vision of royal-blue lace. A glorious relief flooded over all three.
‘Why, Mrs. Plaistow,’ said Mr. Wyse, ‘such a beautiful dress, if I may make so bold as to say so. And such a delightful shade of green.’
‘Your dress-suit. Mohair,’ said Diva. ‘How splendid, and a silk cummerbund too. And blue lace! Gorgeous.’ She paused. It was a time for mutual confession, a cleansing of the soul. ‘Janet’s nephew. Had some black-market coupons. Couldn’t resist.’
‘Alas,’ said Susan, ‘in a moment of utter weakness I too succumbed. A new suit for my Algernon, a new gown for myself. Oh, Mrs. Plaistow, what will become of us? What will Elizabeth say?’
‘Something nasty I expect, but we won’t take any notice. If she acts all high and mighty about it, she can go home and leave us to our sins. Highly worthwhile ones in your case. Wish I’d thought of blue lace. In any case, I bet she’s dabbled in the black market herself before now. Everyone does,’ she added hopefully.
‘It is not,’ said Mr. Wyse, ‘as if we are stealing, or depriving others of their share. If some people believe that they can do without additions to their wardrobe in exchange for a little extra income, that is their own choice. No doubt they are poor people who could not afford to spend money on clothes. In return for their coupons they receive money, which is of far greater use to them. I call it a fair, indeed helpful, system and not in the least like the pernicious black-market trade in foodstuffs, which I would be the first to condemn. We simply provide others with what they require in return for what we are prepared to pay for.’
This elegant sophistry, worthy of a leading K.C., served to close the unseemly discussion, and the conversation turned to more amenable topics such as Lucia’s last officers’ party, until a ring at the door signified the arrival of the Mapp-Flints.
‘Good evening, Mr. Wyse, Susan—blue lace! Such a pretty colour, and so flattering—and dearest Diva—is that a new Bridge-coat dear?—so many dear friends and such elegance. I’m afraid my Benjy-boy and I must look like church-mice in such company. Now, I have some rather shocking news that I must tell you at once, for I declare that if I have to keep it to myself for another minute I shall expire. Such a dreadful thing, and you must all promise not to be too furious with the dear culprit.’
Elizabeth, had she not been so intent on Lucia’s destruction, would have noticed that she did not have the full attention of her audience. All eyes were fixed on her (really quite magnificent) red-velvet costume, all minds were leaping to the same conclusion, and Diva secretly suspected the assistance of Janet’s helpful nephew.
‘Tell us, dear Mrs. Mapp-Flint,’ said Mr. Wyse at last. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m afraid we have a black-marketeer in our midst,’ said Elizabeth dramatically. Three people froze in horror, and Major Benjy took the opportunity to obtain a second glass of sherry. ‘There! I sound like the detective in one of those dreadful penny-thrillers. I was doing my shopping in the High Street the other day, hunting for a little scrap of fish for my Benjy’s dinner, when Lucia walked straight into me and dropped her basket. And what should fall out on to the cobbles but a dozen eggs, a leg of lamb, a pound of sugar and four oranges. Of course she pretended they were a parcel from America—such a childish lie—but I could plainly see that they were not legitimately come by. Poor Lucia! So sad, don’t you think? She has to impress us by entertaining those soldiers, and then finds she must resort to breaking the law in order to do so. And to think that she was once the Mayor of our dear Tilling. What a comedown.’
These revelations,·worthy of the messenger in a Greek tragedy, did not somehow seem to be having the desired effect of thrilling the listeners with pity and terror. The Wyses looked at each other. Diva grew red in the face until she was the precise colour of Elizabeth’s gown, and then exclaimed, ‘Well really, Elizabeth, I must say I don’t think very much of that. There you go accusing poor Lucia behind her back of dreadful things, on very flimsy evidence, let me add, and you’re dressed from head to toe in black-market velvet yourself. I’m sorry if my frankness offends you in any way, Elizabeth, but we have been friends for a long time, and I feel it’s my duty to speak my mind. There!’ she added.
Elizabeth tried to speak but no words came. Her tongue had cleaved to the roof of her mouth, as if she had forgotten Zion.
‘If Lucia is doing her bit by entertaining a few officers, good luck to her. I’m sure she’s far too patriotic to stoop to such miserable depths as buying food to which she is not entitled,’ continued Diva grandly. ‘If she says she gets parcels from America I’m sure I believe her, even if you don’t. There it is.’
Elizabeth really looked as if she were going to cry.
‘But it’s curtains,’ she almost sobbed, ‘a pair of velvet curtains I made into a dress. I would never dream ....’
‘Of course not, Mrs. Mapp-Flint,’ said Mr. Wyse icily, for all that his tone said the opposite. ‘I am sure that we all believe that you are above such conduct. I must add, however, that I for my part believe that Mrs. Pillson is equally above suspicion.’
‘Come on now, Liz,’ said Major Benjy, ‘what price that orange, eh? That Lord Tony caught you out last night, and now you’ve been caught out again.’ The third glass of sherry burned within him; he mistook it for righteous indignation. ‘Doesn’t do to go calling the kettle black, old girl, not in front of company when the accused is not present to give her side of the story. Dashed fine orange it was, too. Anyway, all old friends together, and we shall say no more about it. Capital sherry, Wyse, pre-war I’ll be bound. Don’t mind if I do.’
‘It was one of Lucia’s oranges,’ protested Elizabeth.
‘Very kind of her to give you one, I’m sure,’ said Diva. ‘Fine way you repay her generosity, I must say. Ah, dinner’s ready, is it, Susan dear? Come on, Major Benjy.’
Throughout the meal Mr. and Mrs. Wyse seemed to run a commentary on the food, stressing the blamelessness of its origin. Whitebait was rare, of course, very much so, but they had been exceedingly fortunate .... Venison too, such a luxury, but some friends in Scotland had been kind enough to .... Such a good crop of elderflowers this year, and they make such an excellent jelly. Elizabeth hid most of these treats behind her knife and fork and was far too dispirited to prevent Major Benjy from having several glasses of Mr. Wyse’s excellent wine.
Once again Elizabeth felt that it was necessary to leave early in order to get back to Grebe before the cloudless sky began to send down torrents of rain. Once again Major Benjy was compelled, under loud protests, to do without his little cup of coffee and glass of port .... As the door closed behind them a buzz of conversation started to rise and did not die down for quite some time.
Agamemnon, so the poet records, allowed some god to take away his wits when he snatched Briseis from doting Achilles, and this treacherous deity must have been active in Tilling the next morning, for he took away the wits of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint as she joined the queue in Worthington’s the next day without looking carefully to see who was in front of her.
‘Hello, Mapp,’ said quaint Irene. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Why, quaint one?’ asked Elizabeth, cursing her lack of prudence.
‘Wouldn’t have thought you needed to stand in line like us ordinary mortals to get your pound of flesh. Easier ways, if you don’t mind breaking the law, eh, girlie?’
And she winked, almost as broadly as Major Benjy.