by Tom Holt
‘What I’m getting at,’ he said, ‘is this. We need a sergeant for the Home Guard. The chap we’ve got at the moment has been called up. Will you take his place?’
‘Me?’ said Georgie. ‘Well, I don’t know.’
The man of steel clanked within him and he forced his face into a stern expression.
‘I don’t know about that, Major Flint. I do have rather a lot on my plate at the moment. Cooking,’ he said gruffly. Preparing recipes. The war cannot be won at the front if the back—the Home Front—is neglected. Morale.’
This ponderous statement silenced them both for a while. The Major thought it might be a refusal, while Georgie was waiting to be wooed further. What if the Major said, ‘Oh, very well, then,’ and went off to enrol the newsagent or someone?
‘And besides,’ Georgie added, ‘I couldn’t just become a sergeant straightaway. I would have to be a private first, then a corporal, then a lance-corporal. Too tar’some.’
‘Nonsense, man, you’d go straight to the sergeant’s stripes. Sergeant-major, even. Your dear wife, for instance. Think how she’d admire you in the King’s uniform.’
The thought of Lucia sent the man of steel scuttling away like a crab.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said, grabbing his easel and camp-stool. ‘Such a decision! Goodbye!’
‘Damn the man,’ muttered the Major, as the potential sergeant dashed away up the High Street. ‘Now he’s run off and I’ve put myself through all that for nothing. I’m going to go and have a drink.’
Which he did.
Georgie let himself into Mallards and collapsed into a chair.
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed to the empty room. ‘What shall I do? Major Benjy’s right, of course. And if I’m expected to set an example .... But what will Lucia say?’
And then it occurred to him that what Lucia said did not matter at all. He had had one moment of glory, as cook and broadcaster. But somehow, he was not sure how, Lucia had brought him home and an actor now broadcast the recipes that he wrote with such an effort. Now he spent all his time at home, like a prisoner, cooking not for Mr. Churchill and Teddy Broome, but for Lucia’s guests and Lucia’s dinner parties. It was wonderful to be good at something; but there was no reason why he should do it all the time. Ever since Lucia had found that invitation, he thought, she’s been insufferable, worse than when she was Mayor. There’s no one to keep her in check now, and she thinks of nothing but humiliating Elizabeth. Elizabeth may be a nuisance at times, but it’s sheer cruelty. And there’s no fun in life any more, and it’s all because Lucia’s defeated Elizabeth. Why, what with tormenting her at tea parties and ticking her off at Bridge, Lucia’s forgotten all about the war, because of my food, which I should be using for recipes. She’ll turn everyone against her if she goes on like this. She objected to me having an afternoon off today. It’s like being her servant. Well then, if that’s what she thinks, there are others who think otherwise. Even Major Benjy! I’m a civic leader, it seems, a setter of examples. Then I might as well be a teacher of lessons, too. She’ll find she can’t impose upon the pride of Tilling. That makes me sound like a steam-engine—but so I am, drawing the whole town behind me. And I do think I’ll look well in uniform.
‘Damn’, damn’, damn’!’ he said aloud, and leapt to his feet. Then he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and stood awhile contemplating it. He was getting very pale, and no wonder, seeing that he spent all day in the kitchen.
‘Sergeant Pillson,’ he announced grandly and stood motionless, almost, but not quite, to attention.
Lucia had been shopping in the High Street. Although she scarcely needed to buy provisions these days, it was pleasant to join the queues in the shops and exchange news with her fellow-citizens. Elizabeth would be there, of course; today she had given up her place in the queue, so that Lucia had managed to get the last of the sausages. That was delightful in itself. With Elizabeth’s malice stopped up at source, life had become most enjoyable.
‘Georgie,’ she said, as she laid down her market-basket when she got home, ‘I’ve come to a decision. We play too much Bridge in Tilling.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Georgie, startled. He turned away from the mirror and looked at her.
‘Gambling is all very well,’ she went on, ‘though, personally, I play for the interest of the game, the skill, the mental exercise, not for the shillings or sixpences, which for Elizabeth, for example, are the gauge of success or failure. But it is frivolous to be forever filling our minds with kings and aces and trumps and revokes when we should be thinking of higher things. Yet it is all that the town cares about. They have Bridge at teatime, then they dress for dinner and play Bridge all night. It’s only a card-game, designed to while away an empty hour, yet they all work at it like a profession. They are devoted to it, as to a religion.’
‘You enjoy a game of Bridge,’ said Georgie. ‘When you are winning.’
Lucia took no notice.
‘I think we shall have less Bridge from now on. Let us reserve it for the afternoons and leave our evenings free for music, poetry and philosophical discussion. We had no Bridge at Riseholme, and yet I fancy we were able to amuse ourselves fairly well. Now that Elizabeth no longer opposes every little change that I attempt to make in our daily routine, I feel I ought to use my influence—I can say, in all modesty, that my example is generally followed in Tilling—to do some good in the community.’
Georgie felt he ought to interrupt this torrent of words, but he decided not to bother. There was no telling her anything when she was in this sort of mood.
‘We are in Plato’s cave, Georgie,’ Lucia continued in her most infuriating, speaking-to-Elizabeth drawl. ‘We should not be playing silly games of chance, but contemplating the Forms of Beauty, Philosophy and Art. There, I knew that you would agree with me, for you and I are of one mind in everything. Think how few of our friends play a musical instrument! I see now that I shall have to teach them. Piano-lessons, Georgie, and you must help me. You shall instruct them in the basics—scales and such—while I shall teach them to interpret, to make music. I feel that some of our friends will make fine musicians—Mr. Wyse, for instance. Others will never rise to great heights—dear Diva, and just think of Elizabeth! But we shall teach them at least the rudiments of music; that must be our task. And that ought to fill up the long evenings when we are not playing Bridge.’
Georgie had been waiting for this awful speech to stop, as a soldier in a trench awaits the end of the enemy barrage. When he was satisfied that it was safe to come out, he made one last attempt to reason with her.
‘But Lucia,’ he pleaded, ‘are you sure? No more Bridge, and compulsory piano-lessons? They’re all very set in their ways, you know. I think Diva and Evie Bartlett and even Elizabeth might object if you took away their Bridge. In fact, I think they would object very much. I’m sure of it.’
‘Elizabeth will do what she’s told,’ replied Lucia coolly, ‘and all the others will fall into line. Just you mark my words. They will come to see the sense of it for themselves, with no Elizabeth to cause trouble.’
Georgie knew that she was right. His fellow-citizens were as weak as he when confronted by Lucia in purposeful mood.
‘You must do what you think is best,’ he said enigmatically, and left the room.
In his bedroom, with the door locked, he took out his embroidery things, so long neglected. He cut out a chevron of black felt and took some mellow gold silk, of the sort he usually reserved for cornfields. As he stitched, the design of a sergeant’s stripes slowly began to take recognisable shape.
Chapter 11.
Lucia’s views on Bridge were soon known all over Tilling and were greeted with dismay. All eyes were turned to Elizabeth, as the natural leader of the resistance movement, but she declared that the same thoughts had been running through her mind for several weeks, and that she entirely agreed with dear Lucia, in this as in everything. How clever of her sweet friend to lead t
he way! How grateful she was!
‘But Elizabeth,’ said Evie, as they stood in Twistevants queue, no more Bridge! It’s appalling. What shall we do?’
Elizabeth smiled broadly.
‘What a sweet Philistine you are, Evie dear. Why, I welcome this initiative. I applaud it. What would we do without our Lucia? And her kind, kind offer to teach us all to play the piano, although I’ll warrant that none of us will ever be able to play as daintily as she. I dare say that I have little enough talent in that direction, yet I have already begged Lucia to take me on as a pupil. And I am delighted to say that she has agreed to it. Such music, Evie dear, all day, every day. And poetry too, so she says. Now won’t that be fun!’
‘Ho!’ said Diva, who was standing behind her. ‘Poetry as well! If it wasn’t for Mr. Georgie’s cooking, I wouldn’t set foot in Mallards again. And I’m not sure that I will, anyway. Surely you aren’t in favour of this, Elizabeth?’
She gazed up at Elizabeth pleadingly.
‘I think it would do you the world of good, Diva,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘We have been friends now for a long time, and I feel it my duty to speak plainly to you. You have been vegetating for too long. Your soul is rusty. Your mind is a closed room, a smoke-filled tap-room where men eat, drink and play cards, and never consider Art and Music. What has become of your painting, you darling reprobate, your delicious watercolours? No, it is high time we all took stock of ourselves. This terrible war is an opportunity for us all to reflect on what matters most in life. We are not fighting for Bridge and boiled cabbage, but for Beauty and Truth. Don’t you agree?’
‘No,’ said Diva, who thought it all nonsense, ‘but I suppose if everyone else is going to give it up, I shall have to follow suit. Can’t play Bridge on my own. This is too bad of you, Elizabeth. I don’t know what’s come over you lately.’
Elizabeth’s smile was as luminous as ever, but in her heart there was bitterness. As she handed over her ration-book, she mused on whether it might be possible, without running undue risks of detection and retribution, to murder Lucia and hide her body in the secret cupboard in the garden-room.
Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Major Benjy in the High Street, with Georgie, hurrying in the direction of Malleson Street. She wondered what this could mean, but her spirit was so heavily laden with her own misery that her usual analytical powers failed her, and she dismissed the incident from her mind. Had she been less dispirited, she might have guessed the truth and so been in time to stop them. For Georgie was on his way to try on his uniform (he had insisted on this before taking the drastic step of inscribing his name on the Nominal Roll), and Major Benjy, his teeth gritted and his jaw set, was quietly confident that he had found his new sergeant.
Georgie examined himself in the cracked mirror of the Institute, and positioned the beautifully embroidered stripes on his arm. They completed the entirely favourable impression.
‘Will I have to shave off my beard?’ he enquired, suddenly struck by this horrible thought. It was some time now since he had seen his chin, and he was afraid lest it had declined somewhat.
‘Well, you would usually have to,’ replied the Major. Georgie’s face fell. ‘But it is at the—ah—discretion of the commanding officer to make exceptions. I’m sure we can overlook it, just this once.’
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ said Georgie. ‘I do think that’s smart. Can I see a rifle now?’ he asked with the air of a customer in a Bond Street shop.
‘Let’s not rush things,’ said the Major, afraid that all his work might be undone were Georgie to come into contact prematurely with one of the instruments of destruction. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that sort of thing later.’ He searched his mind for something to say. ‘Nice shade of brown, the rifle we use here. It’ll go nicely with your beard.’
‘Very well, then. I’ll do it. Where do I sign?’
‘Just a moment,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll get the Roll. Damn’ it, it doesn’t seem to be here. It must be in my desk over at Grebe. Tell you what, I’ll just nip up home and fetch it. You go back and sew on those stripes.’
‘I’d better change first,’ said Georgie, embarrassed by the thought of walking through the streets in uniform. ‘I’m not really entitled to wear these clothes yet.’
‘Nonsense, my boy, you go right ahead. Take a pride in the uniform. Think of the admiring glances of the ladies, bless ’em.’ He guffawed.
Nevertheless, Georgie put his cape over the uniform of which he was so proud, and took a long détour to avoid the High Street. He slipped into Mallards and removed the cape, only to find himself face to face with Lucia.
She had been taking a cup of coffee out to the garden-room, where she had planned a quiet hour at the piano. Seeing a strange man in uniform, possibly a German in disguise, standing in her hall, she screamed and dropped the cup.
‘Lucia!’ exclaimed Georgie. ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s me! Georgie!’ he added to remove all further uncertainty.
‘Georgie?’ she repeated feebly. ‘What are you doing in those clothes?’
‘It’s my uniform,’ he said proudly. ‘I’m the new Home Guard sergeant.’
Lucia stared at him as if he had changed into a frog.
‘You’re joking,’ she said at last.
‘No, I’m not. I’ve decided to do my bit. It’s high time I did something other than cook and write scripts for broadcasts. Besides, Major Benjy said that everyone in Tilling expected it of me. And don’t you go saying that I can’t because I’ve made up my mind. Here, what do you think of these stripes? I did them myself. Aren’t the colours nice?’
Lucia continued to stare at him, so that he wondered if she was about to have some sort of fit.
‘It’s no use looking at me like that,’ he went on, feeling more and more sheepish by the minute. ‘And I think I look very well in the uniform. And Major Benjy says I can keep my beard, because it goes so well with the rifles. I haven’t seen any rifles yet, of course. I don’t think you see them until you’ve actually signed up.’
‘So you haven’t signed anything yet?’
‘No, not yet. But I will,’ he added defiantly.
Lucia paused and counted from one to five in her head. Sometimes she wanted to hit Georgie.
‘Darling,’ she said sweetly, ‘why on earth should you want to join the Home Guard? You’d hate it. Why, I remember that when I wanted you to be an A.R.P. warden you were full of reasons against it. Very cogent reasons they were, too,’ she added quickly, ‘as I recall. And that was before you discovered your true calling, your real vocation. Everyone says so—think of Lord Tony, think of Teddy Broome. Think of Olga,’ she added for good measure, and then wished she hadn’t. ‘Think of me. Think how disappointed we’d all be if you laid aside this wonderful talent, this national resource of yours.’
‘You make me sound like a coal-mine,’ said Georgie crossly.
‘It is from the mines of our talented men that we draw the ore that makes the sinews of war,’ said Lucia grandly. ‘Indeed it’s a very apt parallel. Think of all those brave coal-miners, cutting the coal that feeds the furnaces that smelt the steel ....’
She stopped. This was turning into a nursery rhyme.
‘I’m sure they’d all like to join up, but the Government makes them stay at home.’
‘But I needn’t give up my work for the Government. I’d only be needed in the evening most of the time. Major Benjy assured me of that. I’d have plenty of time to do recipes and write scripts. Think how grand it would sound: “Making the Most of Your Ration-Book”, with Sergeant Pillson!’
Something seemed to fall into place in Lucia’s mind. Of course! How could she have been so blind!
‘You realise what’s going on, Georgie?’ she said. ‘You realise why Major Benjy is so keen to make you his sergeant—I take it he’s been nagging away at you, wheedling you into accepting?’
Georgie nodded. How had she guessed?
‘Elizabeth’s beh
ind this, you mark my words. She just wants to stop me holding my dinner parties. So she’s made poor Major Benjy trick you into joining his Home Guard.’
‘What on earth has it all got to do with Elizabeth?’ demanded Georgie, but with a failing heart. Dimly he perceived her meaning.
‘Why, it’s obvious, dear. If you’re out every evening, stomping up and down the Harbour with all those old men and catching your death of cold, you won’t be able to cook dinner for my guests. It’s pure spite, that’s what it is. I think you’ll find she’s trying to lure you away, just to stop me.’
‘She wouldn’t!’ wailed Georgie. ‘She wouldn’t be so devious!’
‘She would!’ cried Lucia vehemently, and Georgie agreed with her in his heart.
‘She’s furious because she can’t get at me any more, and she’s trying to find a way to do it without it seeming to be her. So she’s got poor Major Benjy to do her dirty work for her. How I pity that man!’
The bottom had suddenly fallen out of Georgie’s world. All the bright visions, the cheering crowds, the renewal of youth, all gone, leaving only an echo of mockery behind. He wasn’t a civic leader after all.
Lucia saw that she was having some effect.
‘You wouldn’t want to be used like that, not by Elizabeth? Too shaming, and everyone laughing behind your back. Of course, you would make an excellent sergeant under other circumstances.’ (What other circumstances? God alone knew.) ‘Your bearing, your manly features. Why, you are the very image of one or other of King Charles’s Generals. Prince Rupert, even. But you couldn’t possibly accept office under such conditions. Your pride would not permit it.’