by Tom Holt
Elizabeth, who had been doing deep breathing exercises in the garden, was able to smile broadly at this outrageous remark.
‘What nonsense! Dear Benjy-boy’s always welcome to drink spirits if he feels in need of them. There you go, nuisance, telling all sorts of lies about me when my back is turned. Naughty boy! But I’m sure you’d rather come and look at my lovely flowers instead of frowsting indoors on such a glorious day!’
‘Not a glorious day,’ grumbled the Major, ‘going to rain any minute.’
But Cousin Bertie was only too pleased to look at the lovely flowers and, as Elizabeth had hoped, the fresh air did something to clear his addled head, for he talked authoritatively about early potatoes and pruning fruit-trees, and managed to smell the lovely flowers without falling over, rather more than Elizabeth had dared to expect. Major Benjy, anxious to appear knowledgeable in front of his new friend, suddenly became a great authority on horticulture, and with a great sweep of the arm towards the onions, exclaimed that the carrots were shaping up well for the time of year.
‘Or is it tomatoes?’ he wondered.
By taking a leisurely tour of both front and back gardens, examining every living thing as if it were some unique specimen from the greenhouses of Kew Gardens (and discussing its future prospects with grave concern), Elizabeth managed to keep the inebriates out in the fresh air and away from fermented liquor until four-o’clock. At that point Bertie offered to take the Major for a spin on the back of his motor-bicycle, and although the prospect of becoming a widow had appeared to be not without its advantages during the last few hours, Elizabeth came down on the side of married bliss and expressed playful horror at such a proposal. So the Major and Cousin Bertie went to look at the Major’s tiger-skins, while Elizabeth hastened to make preparations for the tea party. All might conceivably not be lost if the tea was short and the Bridge so engrossing that her guests did not notice the condition her menfolk were in. Thank God that Lucia would not be there to see. Or (perish the thought) quaint Irene. But Bridge at a shilling a hundred instead of the usual sixpence would induce a greater absorption in the game and a corresponding lack of attention to the honoured guest, ruinous though the financial outcome might be.
Diva, Evie and the Padre (on foot) and the Wyses (on bicycles) struggled up the Military Road, finding refuge in Grebe just as the clouds began to burst.
‘So fortunate!’ exclaimed Mr. Wyse when introductions had been made. ‘I would be greatly distressed were Susan’s sables to be exposed to rainwater. Such a pity that we can no longer use the Royce.’
‘A Rolls-Royce!’ exclaimed Bertie. ‘You don’t say. I’m rather keen on motor-cars, as a matter o’ fact. Always wanted to have a look under the bonnet of a Rolls-Royce. Broke down, is it?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Mr. Wyse coldly. ‘But alas! Petroleum is so hard to obtain in the present national emergency and we must forgo our frivolous pleasures in the interests of the war-effort.’
‘Get away!’ exclaimed Bertie. ‘Now as it happens I’m in charge of the transport pool at the base, which is how I get juice for my Rudge. You just say the word, Algy old man, and I can get you all the coupons you want. Any pal of Auntie’s is a pal of mine, as they say, and it’s sinful to leave a Rolls-Royce motorcar gathering dust in a garage.’
Elizabeth shuddered. That she should live to see the day when a cousin of hers should address Mr. Wyse as ‘Algy old man’ in her house. Why, it was as bad as calling the King ‘Georgie’. Or, she could not help but think, Georgino. Even without the damnable familiarity, the offer was bad enough, and Elizabeth’s guests were dumbfounded by it.
‘My deepest thanks for your most unselfish offer,’ replied Mr. Wyse, ‘but I could not expose you to the risk of the displeasure of your superiors by allowing me unauthorised access to petroleum coupons. I would never forgive myself if, through your generosity, you were to incur the wrath of the authorities.’
A muffled gasp arose from the assembled Tillingites. Never had the courteous Mr. Wyse been heard to utter such a violent rebuke.
‘That’s very considerate of you, Algy old chap,’ replied Bertie, on whom this fulminating blast appeared to have no effect, ‘though I can’t say as I think there’s any risk o’ being caught out. Why, half the chaps in the camp are on the fiddle in one way or other, and the brass-hats too, I’ll be bound. Still, there it is, and I won’t twist your arm. If you change your mind just mention it to Auntie Betty, and she’ll pass on the message, I’m sure. How about you, Reverend, or you, Mrs. Plaistow? No? Well, there we go.’
Evie uttered a shrill squeak and the Padre explained that neither he nor Mrs. Plaistow kept a motor.
‘Don’t you now?’ replied Bertie. ‘Well, that’s odd, folks of your standing. I suppose you wouldn’t bother in a little place like this, with the narrow streets and the cobblestones. All very inconvenient if you ask me. The town council should pull up those cobbles and put down tarmac. Much easier on the tyres.’
If the odious Bertie’s offer of illicit petroleum had not already condemned him in the eyes of Elizabeth’s guests, such blatant criticism of the town would surely have done so. Those who were fortunate enough to be of Tilling needless to say looked with scorn and pity on those who lived elsewhere; that a person from Liverpool (Diva was not quite sure where Liverpool was, but that in no way diminished her condemnation of the place) should take it upon himself to disparage the narrow cobbled streets that were such a feature of the town was a crime against God. Evie looked at Diva, and Diva looked at the Padre. If cobbled streets and pneumatic tyres were incompatible, then clearly it was the pneumatic tyres that were at fault.
‘Aye, ’twud be a sair matter to a body to justify a motor in our wee town,’ said the Padre stiffly, ‘it being as a city compactly builded together, as the Psalmist says. And I dinna ken that we feel the lack o’ such things, eh, Mistress Plaistow?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Diva. ‘No need. Do perfectly well without.’ This of course was by way of being an unintentional criticism of the Wyses who, before the war and petroleum shortage, had been known to order the Royce to travel the fifty yards from Starling Cottage to Mallards on a warm sunny day. ‘So much easier to go by tricycle,’ Diva added, trying to conciliate.
‘You wouldn’t catch me on one of those potty little things,’ said Bertie. ‘Give me my old Rudge every day. Eighty-five it’ll do on the straight with a slight downhill gradient.’
‘Now, I hate to interrupt your sweet chatter, but how about a nice game of Bridge?’ demanded Elizabeth grimly.
It was a malign Fate that had made Elizabeth invite all her friends to meet this beastly man before she had had a chance to see what he was like, and a malign Fate followed her relentlessly throughout the day. The cut for tables matched Mr. Wyse, Evie, Bertie and Elizabeth, and the cut for partners completed the disaster. Bertie was to partner Mr. Wyse while Evie partnered Elizabeth. Diva, Susan and the Padre, at the other table with Major Benjy, seemed uninterested in their game despite the monumental stakes, for all the attention that they would normally have directed towards the rubber was given to eavesdropping on the prodigal cousin. The result was that Major Benjy was able to revoke without detection, and his normal errors passed without criticism and, on one occasion, earned absent-minded praise from his partner. The monster meanwhile assured his table that he enjoyed a little flutter on a game of cards, although Pontoon was his game really; his Bridge was certainly after the school of Sefton Park, and the conventions of that barbarous place were entirely foreign to Mr. Wyse, for all his knowledge of the conventions of Tilling, Whitchurch and Capri. As a result the men were hopelessly overbid, and only monstrous mismanagement of her hand prevented Elizabeth from acquiring untold wealth from Mr. Wyse. This was all the more heartrending as Elizabeth’s cards were invariably excellent, and she who had so frequently declared that she was liable to forget what an ace looked like, so rarely did she see one, was fully enabled on this occasion to refresh her memory. As a result of B
ertie’s recklessness and Elizabeth’s desperate attempts to protect Mr. Wyse from financial ruin, total confusion reigned, and Elizabeth began to wonder whether Mr. Wyse might not suspect that he had been lured there to be fleeced of his money, as card-sharpers fleece unsuspecting travellers on race-trains. Meanwhile, Evie was continually reviling her for her incompetence, and she could do nothing but apologise meekly.
‘Well now, Algy,’ said Bertie as the cards were gathered in, ‘we don’t seem to be doing very well. We’ll have to pull our socks up if we don’t want to lose our shirts, eh?’
Mr. Wyse admitted that his partner had been a trifle unfortunate in getting such poor cards.
‘Never mind,’ replied Bertie. ‘Lets just keep awake, shall we? My bid? Three hearts.’
This time Elizabeth’s hand was laden with hearts—when spades had been trumps her hand had been as black as coal, and when diamonds had been turned up her hand was a positive Kimberley—and in a desperate attempt to avert disaster she overbid to such an extent that she could not conceivably win. Unfortunately, she did, and by doing so won the rubber.
‘Well, blow me,’ said the odious one, ‘you’re a sly one, Auntie Betty. That was a cracking good game, anyhow, even though it’s cost us dear. Still, easy come, easy go, eh Algy? What a game!’
‘Allow me to pay our joint debts, partner,’ said Mr. Wyse icily. ‘It was entirely due to my inability to respond properly to your bidding that we suffered this calamity.’
‘That’s very decent of you,’ said Bertie, ‘a very gentlemanly thing to do. Not that it was entirely your fault, but you did get in rather a tangle. Never mind though, it’s only a bit of fun, isn’t it?’
It had proved an expensive bit of fun for Mr. Wyse, and Elizabeth’s hand shook as she received the mountain of silver —not quite thirty pieces but very nearly—and divided it with her partner. In the next rubber, however, she was her cousin’s partner, and as he strove to better his fortune by still more adventurous bidding she was left after its conclusion not only with the shame of having sponsored this barbarian’s entry into Tilling society but with a heavily depleted purse as well, so that Mr. Wyse got his shillings back and Evie positively clanked as she rose from the table. Since Major Benjy had also been a heavy loser, it did not seem improbable that the Bartletts would now be able to afford a motor, probably a Royce.
‘Many thanks for a most enjoyable afternoon, Mrs. Mapp-Flint,’ said Mr. Wyse, and Elizabeth felt a wave of sympathy for the Titanic: collision with an iceberg was a horrible thing. She knew all too well what chatterings and whisperings and cries of ‘No!’ there would be in the High Street tomorrow, the little groups that would form outside the shops to disperse like flocks of startled peewits at her approach, for had not she so often thrilled such gatherings with tales of other people’s failings and disasters, heartless woman that she was! Worst of all, she could see Lucia in her mind’s eye, smiling sweetly and refusing to rejoice in her rival’s downfall, angelic in her mercy and magnanimity, while Irene pranced about, turning the full force of her diabolic power of mimicry towards Sefton Park.
‘Such a pleasure to meet your cousin,’ squeaked Evie, as she scuttled away through the overcast evening; and such a pleasure it would be, reflected Elizabeth, to rend the characters of the Mapp-Flints (and especially the Mapps) over dinner. As the Wyses followed on in a cloud of tricycles and sables, Elizabeth heard the clink of glasses and the whoosh of the siphon. Bertie and Benjy were having another little drink.
Lucia dined that evening at the Vicarage, in reply to a somewhat incoherent summons from wee wifie. Pausing only to change and collect some sugar for her coffee (for only at Starling Cottage and Mallards was that priceless commodity issued free to guests) she sped into the night, her senses racing with pleasurable anticipation. She knew that today Elizabeth had unveiled her cousin, the dashing young fighter-pilot, and it was one of the ancient customs of Tilling, of an antiquity comparable only with the beating of the bounds and the decoration of the church at Harvest Festival, that tea at someone else’s house meant just a bit of something on a tray for dinner. If the Padre and Evie had decided to organise a last-minute dinner party, they must have news that could not wait for marketing time tomorrow, and this news, unless it was that Hitler had surrendered, must concern Elizabeth’s cousin and, in addition, must mean some disaster. A triumph could have waited until morning.
Chapter 7.
One of the most melancholy tasks imposed upon the good people of Tilling by the war was firewatching from the church-tower. What was so pleasant and vital during the day (namely looking down from high places at what was going on) was a dreary business by night, with no one about and no news, and the miserable possibility of seeing something catch fire (although mercifully such events were rare). Even the ladies of Tilling, who would generally find enough topics of conversation in the doings of their neighbours to last forever, generally fell silent after a few hours of this unpleasant duty. Yet none shirked their turn, and Mr. Rice the poulterer, who was now the A.R.P. warden, had no gaps in his roster. Susan Wyse in her sables, Lucia with one of her first husband’s telescopes, even Diva, whose short, round shape was ill designed for scrambling up spiral staircases, all took their places at the appointed time. By a monstrous error on Mr. Rice’s part, it was Elizabeth and quaint Irene who kept watch on the evening of the day after the disastrous tea party.
‘Qui-hi, Auntie Betty!’ exclaimed the quaint one, in accents redolent of Sefton Park. ‘I like a spot o’ fire-watching meself though this tower’s a bit too high off the ground for an airman like me.’
Elizabeth bit her tongue. Although she was tempted to say something rather acid in reply to this childish taunt, her wit was alkaline compared with that of Irene Coles. If the two of them were to be marooned on a church-tower for any length of time, a state of armed neutrality should be arrived at.
‘Naughty girl!’ laughed Elizabeth tolerantly. ‘How wicked of you to tease me with that affectionate nick-name. So sorry you couldn’t have come to meet my dear Herbert. I feel you and he would have had so much in common.’
‘Common sounds about right, from what I’ve heard. Still, we Socialists are above such things, aren’t we, Comrade Mapp?’
‘So few young people in Tilling these days,’ ground on Elizabeth. ‘Only the old fogies left. And no doubt you feel a little lonely, now that a certain rather special person has gone away.’
‘Who?’ asked Irene. ‘Mr. Georgie?’
‘No, dear, a certain officer in the Staffordshire Regiment,’ said Elizabeth, grimly coy. Attack, the best form of defence.
‘What, old Henry? Come off it, Mapp!’ The quaint one hooted with laughter that echoed off the roofs of the ancient town. ‘Glad to see the back of him in the end. I don’t know. Men!’
Elizabeth glowed so red in the dark that she was in danger of being taken for a fire herself.
‘A trifle too blasted familiar, old Henry was becoming,’ continued Irene, ‘so I sent him away with a flea in his ear. He only tried to kiss me in the street. Me! But you know what these soldiers are like, eh, Mapp old girl?’ And she winked and nudged Elizabeth viciously with her elbow.
Elizabeth winced, and her blush threatened to illuminate all Sussex. Attack, it seemed, was a particularly weak form of defence. ‘Oh look,’ she said quickly, and pointed.
‘Where?’
‘Such a pretty full moon, I mean,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘Almost like daylight.’
‘So much easier for those dear little bombers to see their way,’ cooed Irene. ‘Sounds suspiciously like you want them to be able to navigate accurately.’
‘What a wicked thing to say!’
‘I’m not so sure about you, Mapp. On the face of it you’re respectable enough, but you never can tell. And what are these reports I’ve been hearing of lights down on the sand-dunes late at night? Have you been signalling to the U-boats? No wonder you were so keen to scrape acquaintance with Lucia’s officers.’
; This level of quaintness would usually be answered by a slammed door and retreating footsteps; sadly, there was no escape. Elizabeth stood up and walked across to the other side of the tower, from which she could look out over the Norman Tower and the ornamental cannon. Thence her beloved Benjy-boy would soon be making his way, on patrol with the Home Guard. Indeed, at that very moment she heard footsteps, albeit more staggering than marching, and the sound of singing. To her disgust she recognised the voice, and recalled that there was an unsavoury little public-house down just below the tower. She stood up again and as Major Benjy, faintly but definitely audible, assured the darkling town that beside the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking eastwards to the sea, there was a Burmah girl a-setting, and that he was sure that she thought of him, she returned to the other side of the tower.
‘For the wind is in the palm-trees,’ warbled Irene in her pleasant contralto, ‘and the temple bells do say .... Oh hello, Mapp. Back already?’ She, like Elizabeth, was blessed with acute hearing. ‘Someone singing in Lion Street. Pretty song. Here, do you think it’s a spy passing coded messages? Or just a drunk?’ Elizabeth set her jaw and did not answer. ‘Rather romantic, I think. As if the boring old church of Tilling was a Buddhist pagoda, and you some saffron-skinned enchantress waiting for his return from the wars. Very touching, I call it, being serenaded like that. Will you join me in a chorus “Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar”?’
Another corner of the church-tower directly overlooked Mallards, and Elizabeth transferred her scowl and herself to it. Perhaps, she thought, a German bomber on its way somewhere might accidentally drop a stick of bombs on her ancestral home. She would, of course, be heartbroken, but then again, Lucia might be at home tonight playing her piano or reading Aristophanes in the study. That would be something ....