by Tom Holt
‘I see, Lucia, I should have played the eight of clubs there. So sorry.’
Even when out of the presence of her sovereign, Elizabeth could not be induced to utter a word of treason, so that the Padre speculated openly whether she was afflicted with some sort of nervous strain.
So drastic was the change in Elizabeth’s character that even Major Benjy became aware of it. On one of the rare evenings when he and his wife dined at home, he decided to explore (tactfully, of course) this unexpected change of character. All in all he was in favour of it, for he ate better now and had more access to wine than before the war.
‘May I says something, Liz?’ he ventured.
‘By all means,’ she replied.
‘Don’t quite know how to put this,’ he continued. ‘I am only an old soldier, although I hope, by God, a gentleman, but I feel I must say how pleased I am with the reconciliation between yourself and Lucia—Mrs. Pillson,’ he added quickly, in case there hadn’t been one. ‘It always struck me as a shame that the two ornaments of Tilling should always be at each other’s throats like that.’ He paused. Talking of throats, his was dry and he felt distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m glad you seem to see eye to eye more these days. Twin Flowers entwined in harmony, don’t you know.’
He stopped and peered anxiously at his wife. She seemed in the grip of strong, conflicting emotions, like a pool of water blown by two powerful winds.
‘Yes, isn’t it nice?’ she said at length. ‘So harmonious. All quarrels put aside in the face of the common enemy.’
‘Ah,’ said the Major. But something still troubled him. He drank some soup in silence, but he still felt vaguely dissatisfied. ‘It’s odd,’ though, he said. ‘A few weeks ago, you two didn’t seem to be getting on at all. Then, after you got back from Windsor .... Perhaps I’m wrong, but that’s how it struck me, anyhow.’
There was another long pause. Elizabeth laid down her soup-spoon and was staring at her plate as if the soup was full of vipers.
‘Oh Benjy!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘It’s too cruel! And it’s all my own fault. A moment’s weakness, that’s all. And it wasn’t really a lie. She was unavailable at the time, and we didn’t really know when she was coming back. Oh what shall I do?’
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Major Benjy.
‘I see I must confess everything,’ said Elizabeth, her hands moving imaginary beads. ‘The invitation to Windsor Castle was for Lucia. She was away so I opened the letter to see if it was important and because I thought she would be unavailable for the party I wrote back, as deputy head of Tilling medical services, to inform them. I know I should have telephoned Lucia, but I couldn’t find the number in London. I did look. Then the people at Windsor sent another invitation for me to go in Lucia’s place. When at last I did hear from Lucia, she said she would be away for at least another fortnight—poor Mr. Georgie. Well, I couldn’t face telling her how I had opened her letter—you know how she finds wickedness in the most innocent of actions—and so I went to Windsor in her place. I went as a sort of ... well, you know. And while I was away, she found the original invitation and jumped to the most outrageous conclusions, and now she’s threatening to show it to all our friends in Tilling if I do anything to cross her or contradict her. It’s too wretched and life isn’t worth living.’
There was hardly a word of this story that was not, at least to a certain extent, literally true. Admittedly the order of some of the events had got jumbled up a little and some minor details had been omitted altogether, but any historian, from Thucydides to Lord Macaulay, would testify that all historical narrative must of necessity incorporate a certain degree of interpretation.
‘Damnable!’ cried Major Benjy, unaware that he was echoing the very sentiments that Mr. Georgie had expressed on hearing the tale. ‘Blackmail, that’s what I call it. Why, you were simply acting in the best interests of the town. How dare she hold you to ransom like this? When all you were doing was acting as her ambass— ... as her representative while she was off gallivanting in London. Scandalous!’
Elizabeth doubted whether everyone would see it in this light, although this was evidently the light that favoured it most. Could Lucia’s blackmail cancel out her crime? Dare she?
‘Everything I have ever done I have done in the public interest,’ she said solemnly. ‘Pro bono publico. Oh what a wretched life a politician must lead! I expect this sort of thing is daily bread to them. But I can’t cope with it, Benjy, not poor, innocent I. She will tell you that I deliberately took advantage of her hospitality to get myself invited to Windsor Castle. But think how it would have looked to His Majesty if I had written to say that Mrs. Pillson cannot attend the reception because she is on holiday!’
‘I thought you did,’ said Benjy.
‘Of course I did not phrase it like that,’ said Elizabeth quickly. ‘Imagine His Majesty’s feelings if he had thought that no one here was prepared to accept his invitation. “Very well, then”, he would have said, “if Tilling is too busy to attend my party, I shall not ask them again.” But that’s so like Lucia. She takes it upon herself to secure the most illustrious public offices and then leaves all the work to her deputies. As her Mayoress, I was continually called upon to perform her duties for her.’ (Lucia had once asked Elizabeth to present the prizes at the school’s speech-day, since she herself was in bed with a temperature of a hundred and four.) ‘And now, I suppose, I must see myself made a laughing-stock, with the threat of total humiliation hanging over me.’
‘There must be something we can do.’
‘What? Am I to ask you to break into Mallards at dead of night to abstract the document?’ The thought had crossed her mind.
‘If she were a man,’ said the Major, ‘I would challenge her to a duel.’
‘Oh Benjy, how chivalrous! You are a brave, kind man and I don’t deserve such a husband, I truly don’t. But she isn’t and you can’t. It’s tantamount to obtaining money by menaces,’ she continued, warming to her theme, ‘for every time I play Bridge against her, I feel obliged to lose on purpose, and so she fills her purse with my sixpences. What a tragedy it was when that woman first came to Tilling. First my house, now my reputation.’
‘Cheer up, old girl,’ said Benjy, ‘we’ll think of something, mark my words. Let her show everyone the invitation! Publish and be—blowed to her. You tell everyone the truth, just as you’ve told it to me, and then they’ll know just what sort of woman she is. That’ll stop her mouth for her.’
Elizabeth toyed with this attractive notion. Nobody could tell the truth like she could. But the stakes were too high.
‘No, Benjy. Your courageous heart prompts you to direct and straightforward action, but I am only a weak woman’ (with an effort she prevented herself from adding that she had the heart of a prince) ‘and I fear that I must capitulate. And now we’ll say no more about this horrible business. Tell me some good news. How about the Home Guard? You told me it would not be long before they were ready to face any soldiers in the world.’
‘Bad news on that front, I’m afraid. My sergeant, who was the only man in the whole bunch worth tuppence, got his calling-up papers this week. Without him, the whole lot of them will go to pot. Must have a good sergeant, you know. Backbone of the military unit, the non-commissioned officer.’
‘And is there no one to take his place?’
‘No. Well, there’s Hopkins the fishmonger. Early fifties, fine figure of a man. He could do it standing on his head.’
‘There you are, then,’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Hopkins it shall be.’
‘Unfortunately he won’t join up. Says he’s far too busy to fool about playing at soldiers when he’s a shop to run. Treason, that’s what I call it. Sabotage. In fact, I have my doubts about Hopkins. Spends all his time down by the Harbour, claims to be buying fish, but you can never tell.’
‘I shall buy my fish from the other fish-shop,’ said Elizabeth firmly, ‘even though he rarely has anything worth eating. We
must show Hopkins what we think about his behaviour.’
‘The other chap won’t join up either. Pity. If one of them joined up we’d be sure of a decent bit of fish from time to time, instead of the muck we usually have to put up with.’
Gloomily he returned to his soup, which was cold. His mind moved upon the problems that beset him, Lucia’s malignity and the intransigence of fishmongers. As he turned them over in his mind, a quite brilliant idea struck him. What if he were to offer the sergeants stripes to Pillson? The man would jump at the chance—any man whose soul had not been poisoned by prolonged contact with fish must surely do so—and then he would have no time for cooking and arranging dinner parties. If there were no more dinner parties, Lucia could no longer oppress Elizabeth at them, would no longer be able to entertain in magnificent style. That would jolly well serve her right. It was an ingenious idea, although it would involve him in considerable inconvenience. He would lose all those excellent dinners at Mallards, unless, of course, the new sergeant could be prevailed upon to throw together a little supper for his comrades-in-arms after a night’s patrol. But Imagine trying to make a soldier out of Miss Milliner Michael-Angelo Courvoisier. He could scarcely bring himself to be civil to the fellow at the best of times. Civility, however, was not normally a part of the intercourse between sergeant and commanding officer; once Pillson had signed on the dotted line, he had better watch his step. All in all, it was a good plan. It would make Liz happy, and a happy Liz was a damn sight easier to live with than the other sort. Best not tell her, though. Let it be a surprise for her.
Having thus resolved upon independent action, Benjy prepared to seize the first opportunity to confront Georgie and force the King’s shilling into his hand. But how to do it? He weighed up the various alternatives. He could go to Mallards, demand an audience and, backing him into a corner of the garden-room, of which there was only one door, point a military finger at him and exclaim, ‘Your country needs you!’ Such a manoeuvre could not fail to make an immediate impact, but it seemed to lack the finesse necessary when dealing with a slippery customer like Pillson. He could send for him; a Home Guard private sent to Mallards, an urgent summons, a situation had arisen, best man for the job, special talents. Try as he might, Major Benjy could think of no special talents that Georgie possessed bar one, and that was not obviously relevant to the field of battle. Perhaps a gentle hint dropped over the port. But would Pillson take such a hint? Difficulties everywhere.
Gloomily the Major walked through the Landgate on his way to the Institute, where his soldiers were waiting for him. There was Pillson, sitting on a camp-stool sketching the arch, as had been his habit in more tranquil times. Georgie’s heart was not in it, however. It seemed a frivolous thing to be doing, and at the sight of the Major in his khaki Georgie’s conscience pricked him. Rain or shine, he thought, there’s old Benjy, out on patrol with the Home Guard, while I fritter away my spare time making sketches. Olga wouldn’t approve. Wouldn’t she be impressed by me in a uniform? Probably not, he concluded, for he was a realist.
Major Benjy was a firm believer in Destiny and he decided to speak his piece.
‘Afternoon, Pillson!’ he cried.
‘Good afternoon, Major,’ replied Georgie. ‘Such good light for sketching, don’t you think?’
‘Sketching,’ snorted the Major. ‘Don’t know how you can think of sketching at a time like this. Still, you carry on.’
Guiltily, Georgie sharpened his pencil. The voice of Duty was growing ever louder inside him, and this seemed uncommonly like an omen.
‘Pardon my bluntness, Pillson, but shouldn’t you be—ah—cooking something for the Government?’ A picture rose up in Georgie’s mind of the Cabinet, rattling their spoons on the table. He dismissed it.
‘Not today. Very glad, really. So tar’some, being cooped up all day in the kitchen. They tell me I’ve invented so many useful recipes that I mustn’t send them any more for at least a month, because it will take that long to use up the ones they’ve already got. Isn’t that exciting?’
The Major paused and summoned up his powers of eloquence.
‘Excellent, excellent, but you know, we can’t really do too much for our country, can we? We’ve come to expect a lot from you, Pillson,’ he said, feeling his soul blacken within him at this perjury. ‘Greatly respected in Tilling, if I might make so bold to say so. A civic leader. A setter of examples. If you do something everybody’s bound to follow. A little more shading there, perhaps? No, maybe not.’
Georgie sat spellbound. He a civic leader! A setter of examples! Admittedly Mr. Wyse had said that he had always wanted a dinner-suit like his, but that was scarcely the same thing.
‘Magnificent arch, what?’ said the Major, who felt badly in need of a whisky-and-soda. ‘Military in origin, of course. A last line of defence against the Spanish. Or the Dutch. Or was it the French? Of course the art of warfare has progressed a great deal since this was erected. Gunpowder, you know, and bombs and machine-guns.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said the civic leader. What was Major Benjy getting at?
‘No use relying on old stones these days,’ said the Major. ‘We need men, not old stones. Good men and true. Trouble is, all the good men are away at the front, and only the old crocks like myself are left. We do our best of course, but I don’t think we’d have much of a chance if the Hun decided to have a go. Old fossils like myself,’ he added significantly.
‘That’s being rather defeatist, isn’t it?’
‘What we need is some young blood,’ continued the Major. What he needed was a strong whisky-and-soda. ‘Able-bodied men, not so young that they’re needed at the front, but men in the prime of life. Men like yourself. To be frank with you, Pillson, I must admit to being a little bit disappointed in you. Considering what a high opinion of you I have, I mean, a very high opinion, but disappointed nonetheless.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgie. What did the Major want him to do? Cook the Home Guard Annual Dinner, perhaps?
‘I mean, invaluable work, yes. Army marches on its stomach, as Hannibal said to Alexander the Great, and the same goes for civilians. But you yourself said that you don’t spend all your time cooking, dammit. No, you fritter away your energies on sketching and Bridge with a lot of old cats. Dinner parties. Tea parties. Pshaw! That’s all right for the ladies, God bless ’em. Takes their minds off the war. But we men shouldn’t let our minds be taken off the war. We should think about it day and night.’
‘How unpleasant,’ said Georgie, but the guilt throbbed in his breast.
‘We must face facts. Jerry’s out there,’ Benjy cried, waving his hand in the general direction of Hastings. ‘He’s biding his time, waiting to pounce. And to make matters worse, my sergeants been called up. Terrible! Ah well, there it is. It’s here he’ll attack, you mark my words. Think of William the Conqueror,’ he added darkly.
‘He was French,’ said Georgie.
‘Ah, but the French were our enemies then. Puts a whole new complexion on the matter. Now, if I had a good man as my sergeant, a man in his—his late forties, let us say, in the prime of life, a man of intelligence as well as a fine physical specimen, a man of parts, well, I should feel much happier about it all. But there it is. You can see why I lie awake at nights. And now I find you. Instead of devoting your talents to the well-being of our little town, you are frittering away your time—pardon my strong language, old fellow, but I feel this deeply—in sketching and idleness. Why you’re just the sort of chap .... But there it is.’
Major Benjy turned and faced the arch. He felt satisfied that he had combined all his possible approaches—the gentle hint, the direct appeal, tact and bluntness—in one powerful address. Oh, for a whisky-and-soda!
‘You mean me?’ said Georgie, suspiciously. This was most unlike the Major. Perhaps he was drunk.
Major Benjy closed his eyes and prayed to heaven for patience. He turned on his heel and faced Georgie.
‘Your country needs you, Pill
son!’ he thundered, shooting out a massive forefinger that punched a neat hole through Georgie’s sketch. ‘Oh, sorry about that. Yes, I mean you. The only man in Tilling, apart from those dratted fishmongers. And they haven’t an ounce of brain between them. You have. More than an ounce. Pounds.’
Georgie looked at his ruined sketch and then at the Major. Now there was an omen if ever he saw one. The vision of himself in uniform, which had haunted his mind sporadically ever since he had first seen the Home Guard, returned to him now, with no saucepan-clad Irene or jeering children to mar it. His heart had yearned for many things in his life; he had wanted to be a talented pianist, a celebrated singer, a famous artist, a romantic lover—he was none of these, and never would be. Instead he was a talented and useful cook, and although that was very pleasant as far as it went, it was a little humiliating to have won his place in history as the man who could disguise the chemical taste of powdered egg. Inside George Pillson, he knew there lurked a man of steel, and although this man of steel had hitherto been too timid to venture out into the light of day, he knew the hour would come. Aeschylus, he recalled, had fought at the Battle of Marathon.
‘Well?’ said Major Benjy. He looked hard at the vacillating Georgie and wondered if his monumental efforts had gone to waste. He was generally a man of few words and, except when tipsy, he preferred to express himself in terse, military language. But the thought of what Elizabeth would say when she heard that he had subverted the mainspring of Lucia’s dinner parties, cut the supply-lines of her table and thereby silenced for ever the batteries of her wrath, filled him with hope. He planned a little deal; Lucia would get Georgie back three nights a week in return for the document. He puffed up his chest and prepared to drive the point home. Silver-Tongued Benjy, they had called him in Rangoon.