by Ashly Graham
Ruby sobbed and sighed and hyperventilated, and wished she hadn’t emptied all the smelling salts into the useless mixture. So discomposed was she that on the spot, or spots, she resolved to become a nun; it was clear that she’d been sent a message from Above, that she should retreat from the world and embark upon a life of prayer and contemplation.
“Hallelujah,” said Ruby fervently; “Hallelujah!” Not liking the sound of the word, she rescinded her decision to enter a nunnery.
Ruby pulled herself together. She couldn’t stay in the bathroom another day, it was too uncomfortable, and she was hungry. No, she would have to come up with some means of saving her reputation. She couldn’t slight Lady Fitzlady by not attending her party, for her rudeness would be the talk of the town even more than her shopping habits.
But neither could she show up with twenty-two spots on her shell, for the sight of them—the mark of the peasant class—would be seized upon as the obvious explanation for her recent eccentric behaviour. People would conclude, not without justification, that Ruby was nothing more than a common farm girl born of a family of aphid breeders, with her roots in clay rather than loam.
At the party she would be as popular as a skunk at a wedding, and might as well arrive with the goats’ milk yokel on her arm.
Then inspiration struck. She must make a fashion statement of a different kind to that of removing her spots, something that would draw attention to herself whilst concealing the unfortunate fact of her appearance.
Something like...wearing a winter coat.
That was the ticket! In a dramatic reversal of fortune, instead of humiliating herself, everyone would turn unfashionably green with envy as Ruby held her feelers high and announced that…why, didn’t they know?...the next big thing, so big that even the Lady Bird hadn’t yet got hold of it, was going to be the wearing of coats in summer. Why, in the Tuileries gardens behind the Louvre, where le tout Paris goes to see and be seen, everyone had been parading around in furs for weeks, and the temperature and humidity there were in the high nineties.
It was the perfect idea. Ruby’s peers would be mightily impressed with how au courant she was with the fashion trends in Europe. They would look at her with renewed respect, and wish that they had time to fly away home; not because their houses were on fire, as in the nursery rhyme, but to shake the mothballs out of their winter coats.
That business about goats’ milk and clotted cream would be forgotten, as the other guests bemoaned not having paid more attention to how people were dressing in Europe, and fulminated at The Lady Bird for being behind the times. They would never trust it again; and what a fine revenge that would be for Ruby against the magazine, when they all cancelled their subscriptions and it went bankrupt.
Ruby’s thoughts were interrupted as she heard Audrey and Nethersole talking outside the bathroom door. Something must be wrong, Audrey was saying: she’d been knocking and knocking and there was no response, and Ruby wasn’t in her bedroom. Nethersole, after trying the handle and finding that it was locked, said that maybe he should try to pick the lock or force the door.
Before he could do either, Ruby put on her dressing gown, to conceal her interesting condition, unlocked the door, and confronted the pair with a haughty air.
“All right you two,” she said; “less noise and more action. Audrey, prepare my breakfast tout de suite; I’ll take it in my room. And Nethersole, don’t just stand there with your mouth open, there are no flies to catch in here or there better not be. Lady Fitzlady’s garden party is on Saturday, and you must get my furs out of storage. I’m going to wear the full-length mink coat, with the matching fur hat and the fur muff. And call up the fur-lined boots on the system; they’re number ninety-three, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m not.”
Nethersole gaped wider. “The fur coat, ma’am? And the fur hat and the fur muff, and the fur-lined boots?”
“‘Is there an echo in the room?’”, said Ruby, quoting Mrs Gradgrind in Hard Times. ”Jump to it, man, or I’ll dock your wages. And be sure to check for moth-holes.”
“But fur, ma’am? It’s the middle of summer. You’ll boil in your shell like a lobster.”
“Thank you, Nethersole,” said Ruby, “but now is not the time for flattery. The mink it shall be with all the trimmings; and look out my largest and darkest pair of sunglasses, the ones I got for the beach on Bali.”
“Beachwear, ma’am?” said Nethersole, “for a garden party?”
“I don’t employ you for the acuteness of your hearing, Nethersole; but I will shortly be deaf to your pleas that I retain your services, such as they are. There are a lot of footmen in this town. Chop-chop, both of you, or you’ll be for the chop yourselves.”
And so it was that Ruby donned her furry garments, and her boots, and Bali sunglasses, on a hot summer’s day, and went to Lady Fitzlady’s garden party brimming with the self-confidence for which she was known, ready to mingle with la crème de la crème and brûler them with her cleverness in stealing a march on them all.
But how extraordinary are the minds and ways of ladybirds!
When Ruby arrived promptly at the appointed time in her chauffeured Rolls-Royce, in which they passed through the grandly gated entrance and up the long gravelled drive to the forecourt of Lady Fitzlady’s historic and imposing residence—feeling faint from the heat despite having had the air-conditioning on full blast, and fanning herself faster than a hummingbird’s wings with a Chinese fan, and glugging iced Aphidia directly from a flask—and when Bentley had held the door open for her to debouch from the vehicle, and when she had walked up the circular steps to the left of the parapeted front terrace, and through the wrought-iron gate that led to the landscaped gardens at the rear...the debonair remarks that she had prepared about the Tuileries died on her Ruby lips.
She was bouleversée: all the lady ladybirds at Lady Fitzlady’s garden party were wearing fur coats!
A little earlier—Ruby had been fashionably, but not too fashionably, late—Lady Fitzlady, who, as her servants ushered the first to arrive of her guests round the house to the back terrace above the great lawn, had been waiting to greet them, was nowhere to be seen.
And instead of mingling and talking all at once, those arriving grabbed a cup of iced Aphidia with a sprig of mint in it, and a second cup if they could get it, from the trays being circulated by the waiters; and either beetled off in different directions into the shrubbery bordering the great lawn, where they could conceal themselves amongst the huge rhododendrons; or they hurried into the walled garden, or the parterre garden, or the rose garden, or the sunken garden, or the kitchen garden, or even the nursery and greenhouse and composting areas—anywhere that they might avoid running into each other.
They got as far away from each other as they could.
As Ruby herself hastened towards what looked like an unpopulated zone behind the grass tennis courts, next to the hard tennis courts, she could see ladybirds dodging into the maze—one did not fly in polite company—skirting the lake, and disappearing into the bluebell wood in order to make themselves scarce and get out of the hot sun.
But as extensive as Lady Fitzlady’s grounds were, there were so many ladybirds present that it was impossible to hide indefinitely; and, as she slid around a rhododendron, or maybe it was an azalea, to avoid Sandra Featherstonehaugh, Ruby found herself face to face with her friend Amy May.
Ruby stared at Amy May; and then she stared some more, for Amy May was the only woman not to be wearing a fur coat. The only thing that Amy May had on was a wide-brimmed straw hat, which had a scarlet ribbon around it, and scarlet streamers hanging from the back, and artificial strawberries on top.
Not only was the hat very fetching in style, and the angle at which it was being worn, but Amy May was similarly attractive in that she was arm in arm with a handsome young gentleman ladybird in a black top hat. He had a very red shell with two very black spots on it. There was no doubt as to the pairdom, duality, doubleness, and duplicity of
the spots, for Ruby counted them several times forwards and backwards. They matched the couple that Amy May had also been bold or reckless enough not to cover, colour, powder, or otherwise conceal.
By now, of course, it was plain to Ruby that she was not the only one who had done investigative work on where fashion was headed vis-à-vis the removal and absence of spots. That Amy May was the exception was not surprising, because she did not take The Lady Bird, and in consequence was ill informed as to what was passé in matters of personal appearance.
As for the bloke whom Amy May was with, men didn’t care because they were men.
“Oh, Ruby,” said Amy May, pleased; “there you are! We were just taking a turn around the grounds to admire them. Really, Lady Fitzlady’s gardeners have done her proud this year.
“But Ruby, you’ve never been interested in flowers and shrubs. Why are you skulking back here when there are dozens of people you must be dying to talk to? And gracious, dear, aren’t you very hot in that thing? All the others too; I can’t understand why anyone would want to wear a coat on such a beautiful day, and a fur of all things.”
Ruby did her best not to betray her discomfiture. “Actually, Amy May, I am not skulking. I am not of the type that skulks. Like yourself, I am taking a few moments to consider the lilies and smell the roses, before the inevitable conversational claims are made upon my attention.
“And forgive me, but you are quite wrong about my not being interested in botanical science. Leafy petalled things on stems are a passion of mine, and one that I lament having so little time to indulge.”
Ruby stooped to examine a label. “My, what a pretty…Abelia mosanensis, of course. So fragrant. I should agree, Amy May, with your generalization as to the plenitude and quality of the plantings in Lady Fitzlady’s plot. But whilst the overall effect is indeed felicitous, there are a few words of advice I will be giving Lady F. the benefit of later on as regards her herbaceous borders.
“For Emilia, Amy May—that is Lady Fitzlady’s name, Emilia—has asked me to stay on after the party, so that she can depose me tête-à-tête over a cold collation about how best to grow, er...hrrumbibus; though I fear she may not be sufficiently advanced in her comprehension of the subject to make what I have to say meaningful. Emilia’s consultant at the Royal Horticultural Society, Mr...ah…Arbutus, is really the one I should be addressing.”
“The R.H.S., Ruby?”, said Amy May. “Your gardener told me only the other day that you didn’t know the difference between a turnip and a watering can. He said that when you accompanied Deirdre Cotter—who is descended from ladybirds who lived in the gardens of Sir Joseph Banks, the famous botanist—as a member’s guest to Kew Gardens, after you’d attended the ladies’ quarter-final at Wimbledon, you picked a Lady’s Slipper orchid, one of England’s rarest plants, to use as the model for a handmade shoe. You were escorted to the gates and told never to return, and Deirdre received a letter of censorship from the Kew committee.”
“Malicious tittle-tattle,” said Ruby; “it was a hybrid, a poor one, that needed weeding out to preserve the integrity of the species. Anyway, he is my ex-gardener, Amy May. I sacked him for a poor choice he made regarding the importation of a...”—she squinted—“Prunus persica from China. There are a lot of much more knowledgeable gardeners around here. You must have caught him on his way to the shed to collect his things.
“Clearly he was disgruntled, for after his departure I discovered that my favourite secateurs are is missing. I’m quite lost without them, for I can assure you, my friend, that I am very active in my garden, and I don’t just mean in deciding what gets put where. I intend to win a prize this year for a new tea rose that I have named Refined Ruby, which I tend to as carefully as I do my own appearance.
“But let me observe, Amy May, for all your interest in Lady Fitzlady’s garden, it seems that you may be doing a little skulking of your own. Shy and retiring as you are, this is a day to come out of your shell, as it were. There are some people here I may have introduced you to at one of my soirées, or on visiting days, who might be prepared to exchange a polite word or two with you until I have completed my floricultural survey and can join you.”
Amy May blushed, as much as a ladybird can given her natural colour of red. “Oh, where are my manners? Please forgive me, both of you. Ruby, I’d like you to meet Harrison. Harrison is the new Editor of The Lady Bird. We met as the result of an article I wrote and sent in, hoping that it might be published. One of Harrison’s assistants, who screens the incoming submissions, was impressed and passed it to him, and Harrison was kind enough to ask me to come to the office, to discuss the possibility of my accepting a position with the magazine.
“As my best friend, Ruby, I’d like you to be the first to know that Harrison has just proposed to me, amongst the rhododendrons, and I have accepted. We’re to be married in the spring. It’ll be a society occasion, I’m afraid: Harrison has a rather distinguished family, and although we would much prefer a quiet wedding, or even to elope, he doesn’t want to disappoint his mother the Duchess, who is set on the Abbey.
Also, the Duke has a weak heart and we mustn’t agitate him, because Harrison says he’s not ready to be a duke just yet, he has too much he wants to accomplish in life first. Gosh! Ruby, since you know so much about them, perhaps you could do the flowers for the wedding. We’ll need an awful lot of them. Harrison and I’d be honoured if you would, wouldn’t we, Harrison? Please say you shall.”
Harrison’s attention rejoined him from where it had been lingering at the top of a hornbeam. He smiled at Ruby and bowed.
“Pleased I am, Rebecca, to make your acquaintance. I confess that I am by nature more of a businessman than an aristocrat. That is why I agreed to take on The Lady Bird, as a challenge. A big challenge, for the Lady Bird is about as ailing an institution as a person with my professional aspirations could wish for, in order to display his financial acumen to maximum advantage.
“While I have a personal interest in keeping Amy May, as my fiancée, as close as possible, she is also exactly the dynamic sort of person we’re looking for at the Lady Bird, or The New Lady Bird as it is to be renamed. The magazine, Rosy, though prestigious, is pretentious in the extreme. It is of interest only to middle-aged women who have nothing better to do than read about hats and gloves and curling irons and corn plasters and shoe-trees, and beauty creams to caulk their raddled faces with.
“The younger readers we aim to attract, Rita, want titillating goss about film stars, and inside scoop about celebrity scandals. We intend to give it to them by the shovel-load.”
In her delirium, Ruby wondered whether shoe trees might be induced to grow in the English climate, and if so where she might get some saplings; what sort of soil they preferred, whether they should be planted in sunlight or shade, when they should be mulched, and fed with nutrients, and how much watering they required.
“We have made a start, Randy,” Harrison continued, “in remaking our image by pillorying the fads and fetishes of the older generation. In the process, we’re not above poking fun at The Lady Bird’s stuffy image. In last fortnight’s edition, for example, we ran the hilarious spoof that Amy May sent in for consideration to my Assistant Editor, Elspeth de Rigueur. You probably saw it, Raine, you look like a long-standing reader.
“Elspeth, you’ll be amused to hear, is a cockney lass whose real name is Elsie Rigg; though you’d never know it from the way she speaks when she’s putting it on, so snooty and highfalutin’ that we can’t stop laughing. Even now I...ha-ha-ha!
“Anyway, Amy May’s article, the one that brought her to my attention, was about how the latest thing was for ladybirds to get rid of their spots, using a special cream made from the most ridiculous ingredients. Elsie and I thought it was a hoot. I wonder if you saw it, Rona. I can’t even think about it without...ha-ha-ha!”
Harrison pulled a yard of blue silk handkerchief from his sleeve, blew his nose on it, and waved it in the air, whereupon it disappeared.<
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Amy May answered for Ruby. “Oh yes, Harrison,” she said; “Ruby read it, she told me so. If it hadn’t been for Ruby making a comment about shoes being more important to a ladybird than her spots, I should never have been inspired to write the piece, and never met you, Harrison. I owe everything to Ruby; but as much as I wanted to tell her I couldn’t, because Elsie explained to me that it’s strict policy for all contributors and staff writers to remain anonymous.”
“Not any more, my dear sweet precious adorable little aphid pudding,” said Harrison, kissing Amy May; “you’ll be the first to be bylined, especially after so many of our readers showed what a sense of humour they have, by playing along and asking for the ingredients of your spot-removal recipe. Elsie told me that she could hardly keep pace with the letters that were flying in, and the copying machine was smoking, it was so busy.
“The Lady Bird has been flying off the news stands, and our subscriptions have doubled, thanks to you, Amy May...and I suppose you too, Rhea, in a tangential way. The originality of that concoction! Goats’ milk, and curry powder, and turmeric, and...and sloe gin...oh, my giddy aunt Fanny...sloe gin! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Harrison spirited forth another handkerchief—this one was green—and applied it to his streaming eyes until he had to wring it out.
“You know, Amy May, it seems to me,” he continued, when the flow had abated and the handkerchief had vanished as magically as the first, “that Roberta here might have a small talent of her own. Perhaps she would be interested in doing some gofering for you on another article, one about the obsession that ladybirds have with shoes.
“We’d have a real field-day with that one, Rhoda, don’t you think? It might be just what we need to get The Lady Bird well and truly back on its...ha-ha-ha!...feet. Think about it, Rachel, and give Amy May a tinkle in the morning.