by Tom Holt
‘I’m letting them stay at Mallards, naturally, at least while I’m in London,’ she replied, thereby betraying the fact that she had planned to make a long stay, but Georgie, who had seen the suitcases, knew that anyway. ‘It was the least I could do. Magnanimity to those less fortunate than ourselves is a form of patriotism too. Not that I expect the slightest display of gratitude from Elizabeth. I’m sure she’s prowling round my house at this very moment, saying how much it’s changed since her time, and how pauvre tante Caroline must be spinning in her grave.’
In this, Lucia was perfectly right.
‘What a relief that poor Aunt Caroline is not alive to see it, Benjy,’ were Elizabeth’s actual words as she ran her finger over the oak panels of the hallway in the vain hope of finding some dust. ‘Such memories, and all violated by that woman’s criminal lack of discernment.’
‘Much more cheerful than it was in our day, if you ask me,’ replied the Major. ‘Bright colours, smart furniture, all as good as new.’
‘Certainly there are no moth-eaten tiger-skins or mouldy native spears hanging on the walls, as there are at Grebe,’ retorted Elizabeth sharply, ‘but as for the rest of it, I repeat that the décor displays a complete lack of understanding for a house of this age and character.’
She opened a cupboard, no doubt to observe what errors of taste had been perpetrated in the decoration of its interior. She had already discovered much that was of interest in the cupboards of Mallards; but they were not the sort of feature that would be mentioned in a guide-book, unless it were a guide to a grocer’s shop. One of the first things she had done, after taking off her hat, was to inspect the secret cupboard in the garden-room, which Lucia had, in her haste, omitted to lock securely. There, as she had suspected, was Lucia’s hoard of illegal provisions, concrete evidence for all those foolish people who still refused to believe in Lucia’s black-market traffickings.
None of the other usual hiding-places had revealed much, however, and as soon as the inspection was complete, Elizabeth telephoned to the Bartletts to invite them for tea and Bridge that afternoon. Lucia had, after all, invited her before all Tilling—to make herself at home while she was away in London. There could be no possible objection to her entertaining two mutual friends, especially since she had brought her own tea and sugar from Grebe. In fact, she planned to do quite a bit of entertaining, given the wealth of luxuries that the house contained. If Lucia cared to come to her afterwards and demand ‘Where are the three tins of South African peaches I had hidden away in the cellar?’ she would simply be confessing her own guilt. Today, however, she must expend her own stores; and tea would, as ever, be in the garden-room. Now, should the door of the secret cupboard negligently be left ajar, allowing those doubting Thomases to see the contents of it .... She slipped out to the garden-room and adjusted the cupboard door to give maximum field of view, then returned to the house. The post had arrived, and dutifully she looked through it in case there was anything that seemed as if it should be forwarded to London without delay. With astonishment she saw that one envelope bore the Royal crest and the words ‘Windsor Castle’ on the back. She threw the other letters on to a table and retired to the drawing-room to study this extraordinary article.
For a long while she sat in silence, wrapt in thought, with the letter upon her knees. Clearly, a communication from Windsor Castle was of the utmost importance, so important in fact that to re-address it and forward it to London might waste valuable time, especially with the post the way it was. Suppose Their Majesties meant to visit Tilling (although why they should write to Lucia in such an event was a mystery; surely they would not require Lucia’s permission), and suppose Elizabeth dutifully sent on the letter to London. While it was tumbling about in the Royal Mail, there they would be in their ermine robes, kicking their heels on the station platform with no one to receive them .... Surely it was up to Elizabeth to open it and convey its contents to London at once by telephone. Her fingers ached to open it, and soon the ache became unbearable. Finally, with a prayer that the honour it must inevitably bestow upon her hostess be not too great, she sliced it open and drew out a broad white card. She read it, re-read it, and hurled it to the ground.
It was an invitation to a garden party to be held at Windsor Castle, in honour of the governors and benefactors of certain hospitals in the South of England, and Lucia, being chairman of the governors and chief benefactor of Tilling Hospital, was cordially invited to attend. Rage filled Elizabeth, and, had Lucia been standing nearby, Elizabeth would undoubtedly have put her in need of the excellent medical facilities provided by her own operating theatre. For a moment she contemplated casting the hideous object on the fire and swearing, if questioned, that she had never seen it. Then a brilliant idea occurred to her, and she looked at the date for which the party had been arranged. It was three weeks hence. Now although Lucia had said that she would be gone for a week at most, who was to say that she might not be gone for even longer-a fortnight, say, or three weeks, even a month? In which case she could, in all honesty, write to the Castle saying that Mrs. Pillson was away at the moment, she had no idea when she would be back, but she was willing, as head of the Red Cross in Tilling and as such her second-in-command, to represent Mrs. Pillson and Tilling at the party.
The telephone rang and she answered it herself, for it might be the Castle and she wanted no independent witnesses. But it was Lucia, to say that she would be in London for another fortnight. Elizabeth was aware of that tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to Fortune; indeed, that tide was fairly washing about her ankles. She thanked Lucia for letting her know, and bade her stay on longer if she wished; all was under control, there seemed to be no urgent messages. She replaced the receiver quickly in case Lucia should say anything else, then sat down at the desk in Lucia’s study and took out a sheet of Tilling Hospital writing-paper (of which Lucia kept a plentiful supply). She wrote a note to the Castle, telling her tale and suggesting that a new invitation should be issued in her name, addressed the envelope (her fingers trembled as she wrote the words ‘Windsor Castle’), stamped it and darted across the road to the post-box. In her excitement she had forgotten the original invitation, lying on the sofa, which, as is the way of letters and other objects of value, unostentatiously made its way down between the cushions at the back.
The stirring events of the morning—moving into Mallards again, seeking out and finding the illicit hoard, and now the execution of the twin crimes of deceit and interference with the Royal Mail—left her feeling buoyant and exhilarated, and she returned to the house to put on her uniform and collect her market-basket. As she passed the pillar-box on her way to the High Street and thought of the letter that lay inside it, she could not help but shudder apprehensively at the thought of what might happen if the truth ever leaked out. But the fear passed by, and she entered the poulterers with an uplifted heart. The Romans were wont to seek omens in the behaviour of birds, and it was surely a good omen that there should be three fat woodpigeons hanging there—exactly what she wanted for dinner tonight. With a basket full of pigeons and a mind full of strategy, she returned to Mallards for lunch. She had ordered corned beef à la Riseholme (humble pie à la Riseholme would soon be a recipe for the Pillsons to savour) and was grudgingly forced to admit that it was exceedingly palatable. Certainly Major Benjy found it so, and waxed eloquent concerning its inventors ingenuity. Hearing this praise of Georgie’s cunning, she longed to reveal her own, but decided after a struggle to keep the secret to herself. He, and indeed the whole town, would, after all, see the invitation that should arrive by tomorrow’s post. Patience and discretion must be her watchwords, and there would be plenty to occupy her mind until tomorrow, with the disclosure of the hideous secret of the garden-room cupboard.
‘Three pigeons in Mr. Rice’s shop today, Benjy-boy,’ she said. ‘How pitiful they looked hanging by their feet from that cruel hook. So I rescued them and brought them home for dinner.’
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bsp; ‘Better in a pie than eating the farmers corn, eh Liz? I wonder if Pillson has a recipe for pigeon pie—tell Withers to look for one in his recipe book. Marvellously talented man, Pillson, now that he’s stopped frittering away his time on embroidery and sketches and such like fiddle-faddle. Not man’s work, strictly speaking of course, but fair’s fair, and we must all help our country in whatever way we can.’ He helped himself to more corned beef.
‘How like you, dear, to see the best in everyone. And I suppose Mr. Georgie is doing his bit in the only way he is able. Still, I would not compare his contribution to the war-effort to yours, for instance. He merely makes palatable the food that our tireless farmers produce for us, or that our gallant merchant seamen convey across the ocean in the teeth of the Atlantic gales. You, on the other hand, are actively participating in our nation’s defence, thereby freeing men more able-bodied than yourself for active service abroad. Not that I wish in any way to demean Mr. Georgie’s achievements—they are very considerable within a rather limited field of endeavour—but I cannot help thinking that he would be better occupied in patrolling the Harbour with the Home Guard.’
‘Haw, that’s a good joke, Liz. Don’t honestly think your Mr. Georgie is Home Guard material. He could darn our uniforms for us, I suppose, or paint the camouflage, ha! But the Tilling troop is a fairly decent body of fighting men, though I say it myself, and an army marches at the pace of the slowest man. Let Mr. Georgie stick to his pots and his pans and his cushy billet in London. That’s where his talents lie, just as yours lie in tending the sick, or would do if there were any sick to tend, which there aren’t, thank God. Anyway, each man to his own is what I think.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Elizabeth.
No sooner had lunch been cleared away than it was time to prepare for tea and Bridge, so it was indeed just as well that there were no sick to tend or Germans to fight, for they would have had to wait until the morrow. Elizabeth made a final adjustment to the angle of the cupboard door, and placed a tin of pineapple where none but a blind man would fail to observe it, then went to await her guests, who soon arrived along the cobbled street clutching the paper bags that held their sugar and powdered milk.
‘Tea in the garden-room,’ cooed Elizabeth. ‘Just like old times, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, ’tis fair reminiscent o’ when ye were the mistress o’ Mallards, Mistress Mapp-Flint. How accustomed we are grown tae our beloved Lucia, and how sair we miss her, for at that she’s been awa’ but a day.’
This was scarcely tactful, and Evie squeaked her characteristic squeak to mark the gaffe. ‘How long do you think it will be before you return to Grebe?’ she asked Elizabeth.
‘Alas, we have not been informed, but I should think those manoeuvres will take ever so long. My Benjy-boy knows all about such things, of course, and he thinks it will be a week at least before we can return to our own little home. Such a wrench, of course; but then, Mallards is so much like home to us that we won’t notice until it’s time to go back, even if it is so completely different now.’
‘Aye, there’s been a few improvements,’ declared the Padre, and he would have elaborated the point further had he not observed the open door of the cupboard and the tin of pineapple. Evie had seen it too, and her searching gaze had passed by the pineapple to the other treasures at the back. After a moment of tongue-tied silence, the Padre strode over to the cupboard and closed the door firmly. The catch clicked shut. The Padre bestowed on Elizabeth a glance filled with contempt mixed with compassion, such as one might give to a person hopelessly addicted to some narcotic.
‘Well,’ he said wearily, ‘I see you had time tae bring a few wee provisions with ye from Grebe, some of those little luxuries that make life worthwhile, do what ye must to obtain them. And still the same auld hiding-place, Mistress Mapp-Flint. I ken that some things dinna change. Ah, here is the tea.’
Chapter 9.
A second invitation, suitably amended, arrived at Mallards the very next day, and Elizabeth read its contents aloud to her husband over the breakfast-table.
‘’Pon my soul, girlie, that’s a handsome tribute. Makes it all worthwhile, and one in the eye for Mrs. Pillson.’
For a fraction of a second the Major wondered why the King should write to Elizabeth at Mallards, but the brilliance of his wife’s achievement evaporated this doubt.
‘Being able to make my own contribution, however small, to the war-effort is reward enough, dear. I regard this not as a personal meed of honour, but as a decoration for the men and women of Tilling Red Cross. I shall simply be their representative, their spokeswoman, their ambassador.’ The ambassador graciously poured herself another cup of tea.
‘Will you—ah—be away for long?’ asked the Major, attempting to sound disinterested, but unable to stop himself thinking of the small glass of whisky and soda with which he would console himself while he pined for his absent spouse.
‘Just for the day of the party, and I shall stay overnight in Windsor. I cannot allow myself to neglect my duties for any longer.’
‘Why not take this opportunity to have a little holiday, like Mrs. Pillson?’ urged the Major. ‘You work too hard. A little holiday would do you the world of good.’
‘I would scarcely describe a week in an air-raid shelter listening to the sound of explosions as a holiday,’ she replied frostily, suspecting that her husband was eager to find new sorrows to drown. ‘Besides, I owe it to Tilling not to desert my post. We must be on constant alert, you and I. Eternal vigilance day and night.’
Just now, her post was clearly in the High Street, whither the shoppers of Tilling must come and be informed of the great honour bestowed (vicariously) upon them by His Gracious Majesty. ‘We do not hunger and thirst after recognition,’ she explained to the Padre, ‘but when we have recognition thrust upon us, so to speak, we accept it gratefully. We set an example to the rest of Britain, and for that example to have the greatest effect it must be made as visible as possible.’
The Padre was naturally thrilled and proud, but he could not help noticing that the queue in the butchers was growing steadily, and he was not in it. He did not hunger and thirst after mutton, but he did not mind having it thrust upon him. Also, he had a suspicion that when Elizabeth spoke of ‘we’ and ‘us’ she was using the pronouns in the manner favoured by the late Queen Victoria.
‘’Twas a lucky day for our wee toun that ye condescended to head the physicians and the bonny nurses, Mistress Mapp-Flint,’ he said as Elizabeth paused for breath. And noo I mun gang forth and see if I canna get me a fragment of sheep.’
Elizabeth turned away and headed for Wasters, where Diva would be sitting at her customary window, like a stout and red-faced Juliet.
‘May I pop in for a moment?’ Elizabeth called up to her, before she could disappear and hide behind the curtain.
‘Come on up,’ cried Diva, who was bored with her game of Patience, and therefore did not object to any company so long as it brought news and interest, even if it was only Elizabeth chattering interminably about the Red Cross and the Home Guard.
‘Any news?’ was her first question. She had become used to a very rich diet of news these days, and what she saw from her window, once so exhilarating, seemed somewhat dull. With Lucia and Georgie away life was undoubtedly flat.
‘Just the teeniest snippet, love. Just that a certain person has been honoured with an invitation to a garden party at Windsor Castle.’
‘Lucia?’
‘No, not Lucia.’
‘Susan Wyse?’
‘Not this time.’
‘The Padre? Major Benjy? Who is it?’
‘Me!’ cried Elizabeth irritably. ‘Just fancy that. Little me among all those noble and exalted people. I declare I’m quite terrified, and I don’t think I shall go.’
‘But why you?’ Diva could be infuriating at times.
‘His Majesty has seen fit to honour the representatives of the Red Cross with a modest reception. A great honour.
I regard it not as a compliment to myself but ....’
‘How wonderful! And when is it to be? And what will you wear?’
‘Three weeks. And I think my uniform will be splendour enough, even for Windsor Castle. It is, after all, His Majesty’s uniform. Especially since I am going not as Mrs. Mapp-Flint of Grebe, near Tilling, Sussex, but as ....’
‘Is it fancy dress then?’
‘But as Mrs. Mapp-Flint, representative of Tilling Red Cross and the medical services of the town. I shall therefore be a sort of ambassador ....’
‘Oh well,’ said Diva brightly, ‘never mind. In your place I’d have splashed out on something rather grand, but if you’ve got to wear your uniform, that’ll have to do. Grey serge. Rather becoming, in fact.’
‘Thank you, dear. And now, what else has been happening? Anything interesting?’
‘Nothing at all. Everything as dreary as death without Lucia and Mr. Georgie. Susan Wyse bought a new hat, and her sables were splashed by the delivery boy from Twemlow’s going past on his bicycle, but who cares? Oh yes, and Janet tried to make corned beef à la Riseholme, but it stuck. Who else is going to be there?’
‘Other representatives of the Red Cross and various hospitals, I suppose. But I don’t want to talk about it. We had corned beef à la Riseholme, too. I must say I didn’t think very much of it, although Withers may have made some error in following the recipe. Not too clearly expressed in places.’
A small missile clattered against the window, causing Diva to jump and upset the Patience cards all over the floor. The perpetrator of the attack proved to be Irene, who was standing under the window, her hand drawn back as if to throw again.
‘Hello, Diva!’ she called. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea? I’ve heard some horrible rumours about Mapp being made a Dame or a General or something, and I want to know if they’re true. Can I come up?’