by Tom Holt
Irene, as was her custom on these occasions, had set up her easel and begun to paint. She had begun a series of studies of Tilling by night, all of which were almost completely black.
‘It might interest you to know that I got my call-up papers today,’ she shouted.
‘No!’ cried Elizabeth. Within her, her heart sang as loudly as Major Benjy and much more tunefully. ‘How cruel! What a terrible loss to us all! Is there no way of avoiding it? When will you be going?’
‘’Fraid it won’t be for some time yet, Mapp. I’ve volunteered to go and work on the canals. They’ll let me know when they want me. I’ve fixed it up with some pals of mine in London, artists and so on. We’ll be taking a canal boat from ... but I’d better not tell you. Careless talk, you know, and I’m still not sure you aren’t passing messages to Adolf. Only joking. In fact, you ought to come with us, make up a four for Bridge. I like a little flutter meself, don’t I, Auntie Betty?’
‘Alas, I fear that my advanced years would not permit me to be of any use. I leave it all to you young things. So strenuous, hauling those picturesque barges along the towpath. How brave you are!’
‘It ought to be a bit of a lark, I suppose. There, how do you like the effect of that?’
‘Delightful. So full of colour and movement,’ said Elizabeth distractedly, without looking at the pitch-black canvas. ‘Approximately how long before you leave?’
‘Can’t say I’m sure. Not like Mr. Georgie, dashing off to London at a moment’s notice. Have you ever thought of having the inside of Grebe done all in black? Very colourful colour, black. Full of movement. Black walls, black ceilings, black carpets on the floor. Very effective, and keeps the A.R.P. out of your hair. Say the word and I’ll be round in my overalls.’
The war had certainly had an inflationary effect on the value of news in Tilling. The minor incidents of life—Benjy getting tipsy or Diva resurrecting the chintz roses—no longer provided material for two or three days of intense discussion and speculation as they would once have done, for greater and more momentous events were now so plentiful, what with officers and black markets and wireless broadcasts, that there were simply not enough hours in the day to do them justice. Next morning the High Street buzzed with two enormous issues—Irene was going away to lug barges with a lot of painters, and Elizabeth had been appointed head of the Tilling Red Cross, no other candidate having been found to oppose her. In the draper’s queue, Diva imparted these tidings to Evie, who had already heard them from Elizabeth.
‘Head of the Red Cross!’ said Diva. ‘She’s going to be measured for her uniform on Monday. Grey serge with a velour hat to match. Quite a monopoly of uniforms. Major Benjy in his and Elizabeth in hers,’ she concluded enviously, thinking of the grey serge.
Evie gasped. ‘Just like Florence Nightingale! Do you suppose she’ll have a watch pinned on the front, or is that just nurses?’
‘And Irene going to work on the barges with two artists from London. They’ll have lots of time for painting, when they’re not pulling the barge along.’
‘Don’t the boats have engines nowadays? I must ask her. Fancy that!’ For a moment Evie wished that she was going away on a barge, or had joined the Red Cross, or was going to broadcast on the B.B.C. or something. ‘Do you suppose Elizabeth will actually tend the sick? How exciting.’
‘Doubt it, even if there were any wounded to tend, which there aren’t, thank God. Hate to think what would happen if the Hun did invade. Major Benjy doing the fighting and Elizabeth looking after the casualties. Not that I don’t think it’s very good of them both. Still, I could have sworn I heard the Major singing in the High Street last night.’
‘No! What?’
‘ “Road to Mandalay”. Almost as if he were tipsy or something. Still, I suppose it was a marching song, though if his men march like that they must get out of step a lot.’
‘They probably do,’ said Evie.
Lucia, hermit-like in Mallards, crunched a piece of carbonised toast topped with some rather unpleasant corned beef from the emergency store, and fought off the despairing thoughts that crowded in on her from every side of the empty house. In front of her was a letter from Georgie.
...will be broadcast on Monday, with me talking about Things To Do With Corned Beef [was there anything, she mused, that anyone could do with corned beef?] and Tasty Ways with Parsnips. Teddy Broome says that that will do to start with, because not everybody can get the ingredients for lobster à la Riseholme, even doing it my way without the lobster. And Lord Tony’s left the Staffordshires and is working here in London, and he says he can’t tell me what he’s doing in case I’m a German. How horrid of him! But he did say that he’s mentioned my cooking to Mr. Churchill. Apparently they were having dinner somewhere and the boiled potatoes had gone all floury. Anyway, they’re all so impressed with my recipes that they want me to do even more broadcasts if the first one is a success, so I don’t know when I shall be back. Foljambe has bought herself a new pair of shoes for the broadcasts—she’s assisting me in the kitchen. Oh, you know that of course. Anyway, take care of yourself. Remember, a pinch of salt makes all the difference to a packet custard.
Your devoted husband,
Georgie
She folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Diva had called earlier to tell her the news—the devastating bombshell about the Red Cross appointment and the grey serge, and the depressing news that Irene was going away. Quaint she most undoubtedly was, embarrassingly so at times, but she was the only other person in Tilling capable of keeping Elizabeth in order. The whole disastrous Bertie incident would be drowned in the flood of grey serge and glory. Why, oh why, had she not thought of it herself? Too wrapped up in officers and cooking and her own unfortunate plight ....
‘It’s too unkind,’ she exclaimed. ‘If only Georgie were here! We would put our heads together and I would be sure to think of something.’
The doorbell rang—so preoccupied had she been that she had not kept her eye on the street—and she remembered that she would have to answer it herself. She slid the piece of toast and corned beef into a drawer, for it would scarcely do for anyone to see her eating such rubbish when her husband was the country’s leading authority on corned beef, and tripped out into the hall. Elizabeth was standing on the doorstep, clad in a uniform that made her look like an enormous grey tent. She’ll be doing her shopping with a lamp in her hand instead of a basket, Lucia thought sourly, for the sight of her rival surrounded by so much grey serge was more distasteful than even toast and corned beef.
‘And how is our dear anchorite today? May I just pop in for a moment? A brief chat about medical matters, since you are still chairman of the hospital board.’ The word ‘still’ stressed a little bit too heavily perhaps. ‘Such a long time since we had one of our little tête-à-têtes.’
‘Dear Elizabeth, how thoughtful of you to come and see me. I feel so very lonely with my dear Georgie away. A letter from him this morning. Doing such good work in London—the first broadcast is on Monday, and already his fame has reached the ears of Mr. Churchill himself. I am inviting everyone to come and listen. It’s at four-o’clock, so we can have tea and perhaps a little Bridge afterwards. And do be sure to get your cook to listen, dear. Such useful ideas! Corned beef and parsnips he promises us, and Foljambe will be helping him in the studio kitchen, handing him his instruments like a nurse assisting a surgeon. Let us go into the garden-room.’
Elizabeth licked her lips. Would Lucia offer her a cup of tea? And if so, would she make it herself? And if so, how horrible could it taste?
‘So sorry you did not drop by earlier,’ drawled Lucia, ‘for then we could have lunched together. Carrot pie and bottled plums—Georgie’s recipe, of course, and there was plenty for two. And to think that, had cook not taken it into her head to fly off to Wolverhampton, neither of us could have learnt to cook, and the nation would have lost the use of an invaluable talent.’
‘What a comfort it is to
us to know that our menfolk are doing their bit,’ replied Elizabeth raggedly. ‘I see nothing, positively nothing, of my Benjy these days.’
No, thought Lucia, but you hear enough of him, by all accounts. ‘Indeed,’ she drawled, ‘and how good for him to be able to feel he can still contribute something, however small, towards the war-effort. Not everyone can have a special talent, like my Georgie for instance, but—how does Karl Marx put it?—from each according to his ability. And the Major does have a wealth of military experience, albeit that little of it is likely to be applicable to modern conditions. Whereas—just think! who would have thought Georgie had that priceless gift locked away in his head, like a Gutenberg bible gathering dust in some junk shop, waiting to be discovered. Or,’ she added, for the junk-shop analogy could have been better expressed, ‘even like Sir Francis Drake, poised to return should England ever need him again.’
‘Such a quaint legend!’ said Elizabeth.
The battle-lines were drawn. Lucia clearly would talk of nothing but Georgie, while Elizabeth had determined to speak of nothing but the Red Cross and the Home Guard. Would sheer lung-power decide the issue, or was timing the key to victory?
‘And even little, insignificant I am so pleased, so honoured that the Red Cross saw fit to ask me to join them in their essential work,’ Elizabeth almost shouted, for she had opted for volume against finesse. ‘The care of the sick, so important in wartime.’
‘Oh my dear Elizabeth, it is vital, vital. That is why I bless heaven that I was inspired—it must have been inspiration—to endow the Emmeline Lucas Operating Theatre when I did. Involved as I have been ever since in the running of the hospital, I have been able to reassure myself that in the event—absit omen! —of its being required to do so, the hospital will be able to provide the most up-to-date facilities ....’
‘But surely you will agree that what counts is dedicated and compassionate nursing ....’ howled Elizabeth.
‘Naturally. You have put your finger on the hub of the matter.’ Lucia’s drawl was becoming softer and more relaxed the shriller Elizabeth became. ‘What is the use of the most advanced equipment if the doctors and nurses are not of an equally high standard? And, as chairman of the board of governors, I hope that I have made my small contribution towards setting that excellent standard that now prevails.’
‘Such a blessing,’ snarled her companion, ‘but how valuable is the work of the voluntary services, taking pressure off the overworked ....’
‘Fortunately over half our beds are empty at the moment. But it is such a relief to know that there would be so many willing helpers should they ever be required. What a hive of patriotic endeavour our blessed little town is! I feel it is a legacy of my—of our joint term of public office, this spirit of community, this willingness to devote oneself to the welfare of others.’
‘Major Benjy’s troop is to get an anti-tank projector,’ said Elizabeth desperately.
‘Just the one?’ replied Lucia sweetly. ‘Then let us hope there will be only one tank. Better still, let us hope there will be none at all. So wretched that our dear Home Guard should be in such want of proper equipment. How they can be expected to face the German hordes with inadequate or antiquated weapons I fail to understand. Indeed, I should say that they need better equipment than the Regular forces, so that what they lack in youth, experience and fitness might be somewhat compensated for in superior armament. But enough of these gloomy thoughts. Look! The sun is shining again. How blue the sky is.’
‘And while we yet command that sky,’ ventured Elizabeth, ‘the enemy cannot touch us, thanks to our brave men of the R.A.F.’
Elizabeth realised at once that this was a mistake. She should not have introduced that of all topics. Lucia smiled. ‘Ah yes, an admirable body of young men,’ she said, ‘drawn from all parts of the country and all walks of life, all classes of society, all united in the common cause of freedom. The rank is, after all, but the penny-stamp; that is one thing that the war has taught me. To think that before these dark days, I would not have cared to know some of the fearless airmen who now risk their lives daily both in the air and,’ she added mercilessly, ‘on the ground. Simply because their appetites are material, not spiritual, because they would rather expend their energies on motor-bicycles and whisky than on poetry and music! How blind we are to the good in our fellow-man, until Circumstance fairly takes us by the scruff of the neck and shakes us! I shall never again laugh at anyone because they appear uncouth in their behaviour or commonplace in their speech. Never!’
This eloquent apologia seemed to affect Elizabeth deeply, for she rose as if to leave. ‘Don’t bother to show me out,’ she said, ‘I know how difficult it must be for you without any servants.’
‘Servants!’ cried Lucia. ‘Why, I hardly miss them at all. You see, dear, another disguised blessing of the war. When I had people at my beck and call, to open doors for me and cook all my food, I hardly did anything for myself at all. I was not properly alive. I was cushioned from all the hard realities of the world. How out of touch I was! Now I cook, I clean, I do my share of the work; I don’t think I could bring myself to become reliant on the service of others ever again. Domestic service, I believe, is an institution which should not survive the war. It is demeaning both to the servant and the served. Why, it makes one like a little baby again, who must be washed and fed and clothed by others. So demoralising!’
‘Such a pretty cobweb!’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘How beautifully its silken threads catch the light. So sensitive of you to have left it there when you last dusted. So nice to have had such a pleasant chat.’
‘Monday, four-o’clock, Georgie’s broadcast,’ Lucia called after her retreating form, and retired to finish her toast and corned beef. She must mention that cobweb to the cleaning woman when she came in later on that afternoon.
It was pleasant, she reflected, as she forced her teeth to meet through the slate-like toast, to crush Elizabeth in private, to ignore her uniform (she hadn’t referred to it once) and to drown her in Georgie and Socialism. She was flexing her dialectic muscles, performing intellectual callisthenics. In public, of course, it would not be so easy. Uniforms, and Red Crosses, and soon no doubt anti-tank projectors, fascinated the easily led citizens of the town, and she knew that they would be impatient to see battle joined between herself and the pretender to her throne. As if there were not enough conflict in the world .... But the thought of Georgie’s broadcast, and the tea and Bridge to follow, inspired her. She pushed away her plate (the char could see to it later) and went forth into the street, eager to know what quaint Irene had said about Elizabeth as grey-serge-clad comforter of the sick, and whether Major Benjy had really sung ‘The road to Mandalay’ in a drunken voice all over the town the other night.
The Padre was coming out of the church as she walked around the charming square, with its timbered houses and low windows.
‘Guid morrow to ye, Mistress Pillson. And have ye heard from that guid man o’ yourn that’s awa in t’city o’ Lunnon?’ The Padre had added Captain Oldshaw’s Yorkshire and Bertie Mapp’s Sefton Park to the Woolton Pie of language that he spoke. ‘Happen he’ll be ready soon to gi’ us his first wee talk on mekkin t’most of our ration-books.’
‘A letter only this morning. Monday, at four-o’clock. So you and dear Evie must come and listen with me, and a little tea and Bridge to follow. He says the first talk will be on corned beef and parsnips.’
‘No!’ exclaimed the Padre, fascinated. ‘And what will he find tae say about sich puir fare? ’Twud be like to our Lord turning t’water into wine, an he ken a way o’ turning corned beef into victuals.’
‘Oh fie, Padre, such blasphemy! I shall stop up my ears,’ replied Lucia, delighted to find that Georgie’s glorious deeds were the subject of such interest. ‘And now you must tell me what’s been happening, for I have been so isolated in my little house of late that I hardly know whether the town is still here or not. How is dear Elizabeth? And the Major?’
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br /> ‘So ye’ve no heard about Mistress Elizabeth’s glorious new appointment?’ declared the Padre, and went on to reveal that Elizabeth and the Major were in especial favour at the moment. He waxed almost lyrical about the Red Cross, and the anti-tank projector was clearly a gift from the Almighty. The projector, it appeared, was a sort of device that hurled bombs at an approaching tank, and although no one could work it and there were no bombs to go with it at present, could clearly turn the tide of a battle, should such an unfortunate situation arise. The Padre had therefore chosen as the text of Sunday’s sermon ‘He breaketh the bow, and knappeth the spear in sunder, and burneth the chariots in the fire.’ A tank, after all, was a sort of modern chariot, and the projector would doubtless have a similarly devastating effect on bows and spears were it to encounter them.
Thoughtfully Lucia made her way down the narrow street overlooked by the magnificent tower of the church, and knocked at the door of Wasters. She issued her invitation to Diva, and was quizzed about the broadcast, which was pleasant, but was also briefed on Elizabeth’s saintliness, which was not. Vexed by this, she took herself off to Taormina, to imbibe some venom from Irene, who obliged with a fine imitation of Elizabeth tending a sick airman from Sefton Park. This pleasure was muted by an encounter with the Wyses, who praised Elizabeth but did not ask about Georgie until she prompted them to it. As she returned to Mallards, she felt that the contest was evenly balanced, neither side having the advantage. One notable success, or one disaster, would settle it. If she failed to provide drinkable tea and edible toast on Monday, or if Major Benjy’s new projector went wrong or blew up a cow, then Tilling would desert the failure and adhere to the other. But if Georgie’s parsnips were a success, or if Elizabeth contrived to tend a sick person before the cessation of hostilities, then the successful candidate would enjoy the adulation of the masses, and her rival must be forgotten.