by Tom Holt
‘I always think they are the cream of the armed forces,’ replied Elizabeth, ignoring the unfortunate reference to ill closing doors, ‘and with so much responsibility on their young shoulders. Major Benjy—so well informed on military matters—was saying only yesterday that unless we make sure of winning the war in the air, we cannot hope to win the war on the ground.’
In fact this piece of wisdom had been said by Mr. Churchill on the wireless, but Major Benjy had repeated it, if only to disagree violently with it, and so he might be supposed to have said it too.
‘Have you met him before? Herbert I mean,’ asked Diva, eagerly.
‘No alas, he is from a collateral branch of the family, the Lancashire branch you know. Dear Herbert is the grandson of my aunt Elizabeth, for whom I was named. So appropriate, don’t you think, that we should meet at last. I don’t know what he actually does in the Air Force—I expect he flies Hurricanes and shoots down lots of Germans. Or do you think his work is so secret that he is not at liberty to talk about it? Wouldn’t that be marvellous! And now I must press on and go and deliver the rest of these invitations. Such a long way back to Grebe, and I fear it may rain later on.’
Elizabeth did not stop and chat at the Vicarage for fear of the rain and of hearing more nice things about Lucia, but simply delivered the invitation and hastened away past beloved Mallards (poor Aunt Caroline!) towards Porpoise Street. She had been in two minds as to whether or not she should invite the Wyses, for Starling Cottage was still counted in the collective mind of Tilling as part of Italy. But the need to deprive Lucia of any potential allies, and the demands of the Bridge-table had decided her, for without the Wyses there would not be eight people, unless she invited Irene and the Curate. After all, they were not entirely ostracised, for she herself had been to dinner there only recently (although that particular dinner party was not one of her happiest memories). Even in wartime, it was Elizabeth’s principle always to think the best of people.
Chapter 6.
The visit of the Polish Princess was not such a great triumph as Lucia had hoped it would be. Despite Lucia’s study of the Polish tongue, conversation had been difficult, for the pronunciation of those curious words without vowels in them turned out to be very confusing, and the phrase-books range of phrases was by no means comprehensive. After the Princess had (apparently) asked her the time, and Lucia had replied that it was a quarter-past one, and the Princess’s son had said in very broken English that his mother had asked how old the house was, she dispensed with linguistics entirely and relied on the son’s doubtful abilities as a translator. Again, although Georgie’s Stroganoff was beyond reproach, it caused the Princess to burst into tears, the young Count explaining that the excellence of the dish reminded his mother of her childhood home and the good old days before the war. Georgie was rather flattered, but Lucia was inclined to be embarrassed and changed the subject to Polish music, about which the Count knew nothing, so that the rest of the meal was eaten in almost complete silence. The Princess fell asleep during the specially prepared Chopin duets, and left at half-past three.
And that, said Lucia to herself, is the last bit of entertaining that I shall be able to do until Georgie gets back. This reflection did not please her and it was with a heavy heart that she opened the afternoon post. That scarcely cheered her up, for all it said was that the salvage men were coming to remove her railings, to be made, no doubt, into tanks and cannons and battleships. She comforted herself with the thought that part of Mallards would be safeguarding merchant shipping in the turbulent Atlantic (all those dear dried apricots) or driving the foe in headlong flight across the plains of North Africa. Would it be possible, she wondered, to find out which battleship or which tank her railings had gone into? Then she could name it after its former location: His Majesty’s Tank Mallards, or the Star of Tilling. Perhaps a small brass plaque: ‘This howitzer once comprised the front railings of Mallards House, Tilling’, with perhaps a quotation from an appropriate psalm. More likely, she thought, her beautiful railings would be jumbled up with a lot of manhole covers and cast-iron baths. That was a depressing notion in itself.
Georgie had departed, catching that same early train that in happier days had rescued the duellists of Tilling from mutual destruction. Lucia had waved a little handkerchief and Georgie had promised to write, and a cinder from the engine had caught in his beard and almost set it alight before the stately locomotive had started on its way, wrapped in clouds of unwholesome steam. She walked back up Malleson Street with her eyes slightly red (although that may have been an effect of the steam); their redness could certainly be encouraged into a more effective show of grief with a little gentle rubbing by the time she reached the High Street. But it was too early in the morning for there to be anyone about to see her, and so she returned to the station twenty minutes before the start of the usual marketing hour (to consult the timetables) and came back with her eyes unmistakably red and tastefully anointed with water from the tap in the ladies’ waiting-room.
‘Just been seeing off Mr. Georgie,’ she remarked to the sympathetic Padre. ‘So wonderful to know that he is serving his country, and so sad for us poor women to be able to do nothing but sit and wait.’ She attempted a stifled sob, but it went wrong and she turned it into a cough before hurrying away to Mallards, clearly overcome by emotion.
Outside Mallards was a lorry, and two workmen were busily engaged in pulling up the railings. She was about to go into the house when she saw Elizabeth coming round the corner by the crooked chimney, so she stopped and pulled out her handkerchief again, to remove a particle of grit from her eye (although Elizabeth was not to know that).
‘What are you doing to my railings?’ demanded Elizabeth furiously.
‘Alas, dear Elizabeth, they’re not your railings and they’re not my railings any more,’ said Lucia sweetly. ‘They belong to King George now, and he’s going to turn them into battleships.’
‘How could you!’ screeched Elizabeth. ‘It’s hardly two minutes since you forced me out of dear Aunt Caroline’s house, and already you’re tearing it down. I knew I should never have sold it to you. What would poor Auntie think?’
‘Auntie would be delighted to know that her charming railings were going to help fight the Germans. Solid metal. Enough for a whole cannon. Oh, and by the way, I noticed that that handsome wrought-iron gate is still in position outside Grebe. I’m sure these gentlemen would be able to find time to collect it. Just think! Your front gate and my railings, fused together to fight Hitler. That’s how it should be, of course. The whole community welded together to resist the enemy.’
With a snort of fury Elizabeth stalked off down the street. The morning had been a melancholy one, thought Lucia, as she let herself into the house, but not without its redeeming features.
Elizabeth, as it happened, was on her way back from a little quiet sketching in Church Square, as a prelude to the excitement of the day. For today, this very lunchtime, her cousin Herbert would arrive, resplendent in his Air Force uniform, his neck no doubt adorned with a white silk scarf, to have lunch and tea and play Bridge with all the most noteworthy citizens of Tilling except Lucia. Lucia, of course, would not feel up to visiting and celebrating on the day of Georgie’s departure, and besides, she should not be called upon to betray her allegiance to the Staffordshires. In the High Street Elizabeth bought a number of inexpensive delicacies to supplement the simple but traditional fare that would be prepared for her heroic cousin. There would also be a bottle of burgundy, drawn out of long hibernation in the kitchen, almost the last survivor of the magnificent cellar that Major Benjy had collected under the false impression that Elizabeth had been drowned and left him all her money .... It was a pity that Mr. Georgie had not yet begun his series of broadcasts, for without question (she reflected sourly) he knew of excellent methods for making cakes without eggs or fruit, and then they could have had cake with their tea. As it was, bread and marrow-jam must serve their turn, and hot water lightly
stained with tea. If nothing else good came out of this war, it gave tremendous scope for imaginative frugality.
Woolton Pie and a sort of bread-and-butter pudding, however, would surely satisfy the palate of Nero himself, especially if rounded off with a few preserved plums (for the plum-trees of Grebe had done their share in defying the Hun). As a special mark of festivity, equivalent to a general amnesty, Major Benjy would be allowed a whisky-and-soda before lunch (although the affair of the broken pig and the hip-flask was by no means forgotten); it would not be fair to provide her cousin with whisky and soda (should he request it) and withhold it from her husband. A very small whisky-and-soda, from time to time, helped to keep one’s morale up in the dark days of war.
The chubby gilded cherubs on the top of the church-tower hammered out half-past twelve on their little bells as Elizabeth hurried down the High Street towards Grebe. She was an energetic walker, and the journey never took her much more than a quarter-of-an-hour. Herbert would not be arriving before twelve-thirty; nonetheless it would be as well to be at home in plenty of time. As she walked through the Landgate she was nearly knocked down by a powerful motor-bicycle which was travelling far too fast. The rider of the offending machine sounded his horn and exclaimed ‘Mind out, pet!’ in an uncouth voice as he roared away, causing the ancient gate to re-echo with clamorous noise. Elizabeth muttered something about louts, and continued her journey on the pavement.
As she arrived at Grebe she saw to her horror the same motor-bicycle that had come so close to terminating her existence standing outside the house. Her mind was filled with horrible forebodings as she let herself in at the front-door. She heard the sound of joyous male laughter and the clink of glasses coming from her drawing-room.
A large stout man with a thick moustache and a countenance of the kind usually described as florid was sitting in her most comfortable chair holding a glass amply filled with whisky and soda. Lounging opposite was Major Benjy, also holding a brimming tumbler and smoking a cigar.
‘Hello, Auntie Betty,’ said the stout man, rising (rather unsteadily perhaps?) to his feet and extending an enormous hand. ‘I’m your cousin Herbert. Very pleased to meet you.’
Elizabeth smiled and took the massive paw as if it had been dead for three days. Her lower lip was trembling; nor was it the emotion of meeting her cousin for the first time that had so shaken her composure.
‘Hang on though,’ said Cousin Herbert, his broad face developing a huge grin, ‘you’re the lady who stepped out in front of me when I was coming through that arch affair in town. You ought to look where you’re going, Auntie Betty. Gave me a fright, you did. Why, folks might jump to all sorts of conclusions if they saw you wandering about all over the place. Might think you were a little bit tipsy, eh?’ And he roared with laughter at this horrible joke.
Elizabeth shot a glance of fury mixed with terror at her husband, who, failing to interpret it, also laughed loudly and cried, ‘Very good, yes, upon my soul,’ then helped himself to more whisky. ‘He’s got a point there, Liz, you know,’ he continued. ‘Mustn’t give people ideas, ’specially in Tilling. Very fond of gossip in Tilling, liable to jump to conclusions, two an’ two make five, misunderstand the simplest thing. Like goin’ out at ten-o’ clock at night to post a letter with no address on it.’
With this pointed reference to past dishonours, he winked hugely so that Elizabeth, unable to speak, collapsed into a chair.
‘We’ve been getting on like a house on fire, Major Flint an’ me,’ continued the appalling Herbert. ‘A man’s man, I don’t mind saying, and not stingy with his whisky. And that reminds me, I’ve got a little present for both of you. A bottle of Scotch for you, Major, and this is for you, Auntie. Go on, open it.’
He thrust something like a flat plate wrapped in newspaper at his stunned cousin, who opened it with numb fingers. It was a gramophone recording of Mr. George Formby singing ‘I’m leaning on a lamp-post at the corner of the street’. Never, thought Elizabeth, have I suffered so much in such a short time.
‘I like a nice tune myself,’ said Herbert, ‘and that’s all the rage up in Sefton Park. We can put it on after our lunch, if you’re not familiar with the tune. Ah, thank you, Major, I don’t mind if I do. Will you join us, Auntie?’
Too aghast to utter a sound, Elizabeth shook her head. Her lips were as if welded together. All Tilling would be arriving at four-o’clock.
‘I hear from the Major that we’re going to have a little game of Bridge later on,’ continued Herbert, his glass refilled. ‘That’s grand, I must say, though I’d just as soon play a nice game of Whist or Pontoon. We often go to Whist drives at home. Well, this is very pleasant, I must say.’
‘Privilege to be able to entertain one of our knights of the air at our humble home,’ said the perfidious Major.
Wedged behind him in the recesses of the chair was the bottle of whisky that Herbert had brought. No doubt it would be spirited away and referred back to in the future, to bring about further smashing of china and disruption in the home.
‘Greatest respect for our brave boys, protectin’ hearth and home from the Hun. I say, Lizbeth, aren’t you proud of your cousin, my cousin by marriage, God bless him, flyin’ those damn great Hurricanes up an’ down the sky all day an’· shootin’ down the Messerschmitts, pop-pop-pop, eh? Pop-pop-pop.’ He sniggered into his glass.
‘Me fly Hurricanes? No fear!’ exclaimed Herbert. ‘You wouldn’t get me up in one of those things, not for all the tea in China, nor all the Scotch in Scotchland, I mean Scotland. No, it’s terra firma and me own two feet for old Bertie Mapp. Officer Commanding Transport Pool. The quiet life and plenty of dodges for them that know them, eh?’
‘Damn useful work it is too,’ said the Major admiringly. ‘Can’t fight a war without a transport pool, as Mr. Churchill was sayin’ on the wireless the other night. Sinews of war. An army marchin’ on its stomach. Never could understand that, by the way.’
Withers, like an angel of deliverance, made her appearance at the door to announce that lunch was ready. It was not a successful meal. The bottle of burgundy evaporated all too quickly, for Bertie declared that he liked a drop o’ wine, especially at Christmas, and the Major said that it wasn’t long to Christmas so why not, and soon Withers had been despatched to bring in another bottle. Herbert ate hugely of Woolton Pie and bread-and-butter pudding, remarking that it reminded him of home (this made Elizabeth shudder). After lunch the Major suggested a drop of port, enabling Elizabeth to slip away, ‘leaving you men to your port,’ to the garden where she cooled her burning face and tried to think of some way out of this disaster. It was too late to call off the Bridge party now, and besides, Herbert had been promised Bridge. If he were to be deprived of it, God alone knew what he might say. What was more, Major Benjy was in such a dangerously rebellious mood than he might broadcast throughout Tilling the news that Elizabeth had cancelled her Bridge party because she didn’t think her cousin was good enough to meet her friends .... On all sides she was hedged in by disaster.
‘How was I to know?’ she demanded of her sweet flowers; the sweet flowers nodded their heads in tacit agreement.
Major Benjy, oblivious of his wife’s torment, helped his cousin by marriage, with whom he was well pleased, to some more port. ‘Nothin’ too good for our brave lads,’ he exclaimed, lifting his full glass to his lips, ‘not even Lizbeth’s best port, eh Herbert?’
‘The fellows in the Mess all call me Bertie.’
‘Here’s health, then, Bertie old man,’ replied the Major.
‘That were a grand meal, Major, and a grand drop of port to wash it down,’ continued Bertie Mapp. ‘She’s a good sort, is Auntie Betty. Not at all stuck up or anything. A real brick.’
‘Fine woman, Lizbeth Mapp-Flint,’ agreed the Major. ‘Greatest esteem for the li’l woman. Won’ hear a word said against her, not even if the King himself were to say it, not that he would, God bless him. Challenge any man who says a word against my Liz to a duel
. Two duels. Fact is, I once challenged a fellow to a duel for saying a word ’gainst my Liz. Lizbeth Mapp as she was then.’
‘Go on!’ said Bertie, much impressed. ‘A duel? Who won?’
‘Oh, duel never got fought. Padre stopped it.’ The Major sighed, as if reflecting on missed opportunities. ‘But the feller did die shortly after, so I s’pose I did.’
‘You’re a character and no mistake,’ said the admiring Bertie. ‘I’m too fond of my health to go getting involved in duels, and there might not be a Padre handy to stop it.’
‘Mind you,’ continued the Major, ‘and don’t go repeating this to all an’ sundry, but Lizbeth can be a li’l bit hard on a feller at times. A marvellous woman, but a man likes a drink from time to time. A li’l drink before lunch, perhaps, and a glass o’ wine with his lunch, and a spot o’ port after, an pr’aps a whisky-an’-soda around five-o’clock and so on. But Lizbeth—Lizbeth Mapp-Flint, God bless her, and so say all of us—she don’t hold wi’ li’l drinks. Fine woman nonetheless. Wouldn’t dream o’ criticisin’ her. Fight any man that says a word against her, as I said just now. But there it is. The ladies!’ He drank a toast.
‘Come on now, Major,’ said Bertie when they had refilled their glasses, ‘all respect where respect’s due, and don’t you go challenging me to a duel, but things have come to a pretty poor pass when a chap can’t have a spot of whisky or a glass of wine in his own home. A spot of whisky is a man’s birthright when the lights are low and the little birdies are singing in the hedgerows. A spot of whisky and a glass of wine with your lunch, or a glass of ale, or a drop of brandy, that’s what we’re fighting this war for. Won’t be any small glasses of whisky or drops of wine if Hitler has his way. Not that I’m saying Auntie Betty’s like Hitler. Not the same thing at all. What I mean is, here you’ve got an old soldier, autumn of his days, served his country under the burning Indian sun, shot tigers to protect cowering villagers, needs a bit of the right stuff to cheer the evening tide of life. Hello, Auntie,’ he cried as Elizabeth entered the room, ‘bad show this, not letting the Major here have a small glass of whisky now and again. Not British.’