Lucia Triumphant

by Tom Holt

  She resolved to leave the question to be decided by omens. If the next motor to pass her was going up the street, it would be Marina blue; if it was going down the street, Woman and Beauty would prevail, and orange and fawn would be preferred. Unfortunately, two motors came almost simultaneously from opposite directions and passed each other at her feet. The only possible conclusion to be drawn from that was that the Fates were mocking her and she resolved, impulsively, on Marina blue.

  The sight of Elizabeth emerging from the shop shattered her resolution, for everything would depend on what Elizabeth had chosen. And should she follow Elizabeth’s lead or try to be different?

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Ah, the sun!’

  Diva ignored these pleasantries.

  ‘Which one have you chosen?’ she demanded sternly.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear?’ asked Elizabeth, slightly puzzled.

  ‘Orange and fawn or Marina blue? I can’t make up my mind at all.’

  Elizabeth had made her decision, but Diva was not to know what it was. Far better for her to be forced to make her own choice; it would be character-forming for her.

  ‘I only popped in for some button-thread,’ she therefore replied. ‘Besides, it doesn’t do to believe everything you read.’

  With this devastating comment, she continued blithely on her way, leaving Diva a prey to all sorts of desperate worries. What did Elizabeth know that she did not? Had both alternatives been left behind by the remorseless progress of fashion? Pulling herself together with an effort, Diva resolved firmly to put the decision off for another day and buy some cream wool for a pullover. On that topic all the recognised authorities were agreed, and, although it was scarcely exciting, it was at least safe.

  Evie Bartlett was the next to emerge. She seemed rather secretive, as well she might, for she was conspiring with draper and dressmaker to bring about a pongee tennis-coat that ought to have a devastating effect upon the other ladies of Tilling, scattering them in the imagination of their hearts.

  ‘Good morning, Diva,’ she said bravely, determined to sell her life before her secret.

  ‘What did Elizabeth order?’ demanded Diva anxiously. ‘Did you manage to see?’

  ‘Macclesfield silk,’ said Evie reverently. ‘I didn’t gather which colours. The assistant said “What sort of silk, madam?” and Elizabeth said “Macclesfield” and then I think she saw me because she lowered her voice. But I think it’s having to be ordered specially; I saw the assistant writing something down in a book.’

  ‘That’s stripes,’ said Diva enviously. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  To Irene, these matters were of purely academic interest, for she tended to buy her clothes from the ships’ chandlers down by the harbour. Nevertheless, her interest in academic matters was sufficiently strong to cause her to pause for a moment in the doorway of the newsagent’s shop and listen to this sartorial debate. Having satisfied herself on the salient points, she filled her pipe and strolled across to join Diva and Evie.

  ‘What ho!’ she exclaimed boisterously. ‘Getting ready for the summer season, are we? Such a worry, isn’t it? Should I wear my blue pea-jacket with my moleskin breeches, and, if so, would black or brown ammunition boots be appropriate?’

  She struck a match and endeavoured to light her pipe; but, since clay pipes were being smoked short in the stem that year, she succeeded only in singeing the tip of her nose.

  ‘Bother this dratted tobacco; I suppose they make it fire-proof in case the warehouse it’s stored in burns down. For persons of generous build, I believe Vogue recommends tarpaulins, or, for summer wear, dust-sheets.’

  This low sarcasm was all that could be expected from Irene, and so Diva was able to rise above it (for she had had plenty of practice over the years). There was still the serious problem of Elizabeth’s Macclesfield silk to be considered. She gave a brief summary of her opinion on the subject to Evie and, when she looked round, Irene had disappeared. She had, in fact, slipped into the shop, where the draper, who knew her only by sight, asked her if there were anything he could do for her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said promptly. ‘You know that Macclesfield silk that Mrs. Mapp-Flint ordered just now?’

  ‘Ah, yes, madam. Grey and white stripes, I recall.’

  ‘Well, she’s changed her mind. Seen something in a magazine, I think. Anyway,’ said Irene unblushingly, ‘have you got any sateen in Marina blue?’

  ‘Sateen,’ said the draper with distaste, ‘and in Marina blue. Well, that’s something we don’t usually stock, especially in what you might call fashion colours. It seems a funny thing to be making a frock out of. I could order some, but it would probably have to be specially dyed and that would make it expensive for what it is.’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Irene. ‘How soon can you get it?’

  The draper did a few calculations and said it would take about a week. Irene said that if that was as long as it took, that would have to do.

  ‘Are you sure she said sateen?’ persisted the draper, as she turned to go.

  ‘Positive,’ replied Irene. ‘Goodbye.’

  Counting on her fingers, she worked out that if the material were ready in a week and Elizabeth took it straight round to the dressmaker without opening it, ten days would elapse before she discovered what had happened. Say another week before the Macclesfield silk had arrived and been made up—then Elizabeth would be a fortnight behind everyone else with her summer outfit, which would make her absolutely furious. She smiled angelically, turned the bowl of her pipe at an angle to light it, and went demurely on her way.

  Georgie had decided that his summer suit was to be a light-grey worsted, with a new plum-coloured waistcoat and dark-blue socks. He also had dreams of a single-breasted blazer and a straw boater. A quick glance at his financial situation dictated a choice between the boater and the waistcoat. After much indecision he decided that the waistcoat would be rather too daring and dismissed it from his mind. As he did so he reflected sadly on the missed opportunities that Fate offers us, to haunt the reflection of our later years, and it was in a sombre mood that he stepped into the hatter’s to be measured. Perhaps it was this preoccupation that drove from his mind the important point that he had overlooked, for it was not until the hatter asked him what sort of ribbon he wanted round the boater that the concept of attaching such a ribbon occurred to him.

  ‘Perhaps in your school colours, sir? Or your college?’

  Georgie flushed and explained that he had been privately educated. Nor could he think of any club or society whose cause he espoused. When the hatter asked him which side he supported in the Boat Race, he said Cambridge, and so the hatter suggested light-blue. Georgie, relieved, agreed to this, and it was only when he was half-way back to Mallards that he remembered the dark-blue socks.

  ‘How tar’some!’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘They will have to be altered now.’

  As he entered the house, however, he became aware of a strange atmosphere, as if some visitation or spiritual phenomenon had taken place there. He remembered what Lucia had said about the Black Spaniard, about the aura left behind by momentous events, and deduced that something had been going on while he was out.

  ‘Good morning, Georgino,’ said his wife. ‘Been shopping?’

  ‘I’ve been planning my summer wardrobe,’ he replied. ‘But it’s no use your trying to find out what it’s going to be. It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve chosen will, I’m sure, be absolutely right,’ replied Lucia absently. She seemed rather preoccupied with something and it was a little humiliating to have no interest taken in his summer clothes. Perhaps she was sulking because he had shown no interest in her wretched festival that morning; but the preoccupation suggested something else. Georgie sat down and took up his embroidery—the long-forgotten hassocks for the Church. After a while, he asked carelessly:

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Lucia drawled, ‘there was something.’ H
er façade of relaxed indifference crumbled quite suddenly and her voice became quick and excited. ‘Guess what! Queen Mary wants to visit Tilling!’

  ‘No!’ gasped Georgie. ‘How exciting!’

  ‘It’s true. And she’s coming very soon, and it was just a whim of hers. Do you remember that superior-looking woman who came and peered at our curtains and rang the bell and asked about them?’

  ‘The one whose dog thought Susan Wyse was a bear?’ hazarded Georgie.

  ‘The very same. Well, she was none other than Lady Jane Hall, who is, as you know, an old friend of Her Majesty and one of her Ladies in Waiting. She happened to be staying in Tilling—’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ interrupted Georgie.

  ‘A letter. Anyway, she was staying in Tilling on her way to somewhere and she liked it so much that she told the Queen, and Her Majesty liked the sound of it and now she wants to come here herself. Now, what do you think of that?’

  ‘Let me see the letter,’ demanded Georgie, rather in the manner of the disciple also named Didymus.

  So Georgie read the letter and believed, and gave it back to Lucia.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose it is reasonable enough. After all, Tilling is Tilling, and if she hasn’t seen it before ....’

  A great wave of pity washed over his heart, as it always did when he thought of the millions of people who did not live in Tilling, and of those even more unfortunate, of whom there must be hundreds of thousands, who had never even seen it. He shook his head sadly, for there is such hardship in the world, and then asked Lucia if she thought Lady Jane had mentioned their curtains to the Queen.

  ‘Certainly, dear,’ replied Lucia. ‘Lady Jane was most specific on that point. Her Majesty, you will remember, is President of the Needlewomen’s Guild, and so she has a special interest in such things. Anyway, we must start right away, for there are a hundred and one things to be done before the town is ready for the visit.’

  Suddenly Georgie realised what this meant. Lucia, as Mayor of Tilling, would meet Her Majesty at the station, with a brass band and the rest of the Corporation, and drive with her all round the town pointing out objects of interest. Perhaps the Queen might even take tea at Mallards (glorious prospect!). If the weather continued fine and the sun warm, they might have their tea in the garden—perhaps even in the giardino segreto. Georgie scarcely dared to voice these hopes, but Lucia was less superstitious.

  ‘After the reception and the tour,’ she said, ‘I feel sure that Her Majesty might be prevailed upon to take tea with us here—in the garden if the weather is fine. I have been thinking for some time of renaming the giardino segreto Queen Mary’s Garden; it must have been an omen—’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Georgie suddenly, ‘I’ve just ordered my summer suit. Boring light-grey worsted. I can’t wear that in front of Her Majesty. How long before the visit?’

  ‘Just over a week,’ replied Lucia. ‘Plenty of time to get another suit made up.’

  ‘But what can I wear?’ Georgie wailed. ‘I can’t think of anything at all. Oh, how terrible!’

  ‘Cream barathea and crocodile shoes,’ said Lucia serenely, for she had anticipated this difficulty. ‘And you shall have it as your birthday present from me. Now don’t you worry; I telephoned the tailor while you were out and he has exactly the right material in stock and he’s sure he can do it in time because he’s got your measurements already. I, of course, will be wearing my Mayoral robes ....’

  But Georgie had gone. With a quick ‘Bless you!’, he had leapt to his feet and run hatless down the street to the tailor’s shop to give him, immediately, the design for this wonderful apparel. But when he got there the shop was closed for lunch. He was tempted to wait until it reopened, but that would not be until two-o’clock. On the way back to Mallards he met Elizabeth and was on the point of telling her the news when it occurred to him that Lucia might not want the visit announced just yet, so he said nothing, but simply waved his hand.

  ‘They were shut,’ he told Lucia on his return. ‘What are we going to tell everyone?’

  ‘Everything, of course. There is no need of secrecy, and, besides, we shall all have to pull together if the town is to be presentable in time.’

  Grosvenor announced that lunch was ready and, although she presented them with the first asparagus of the season, they heeded it not. Lunch was quickly eaten and then the planning began.

  The Tilling Brass Band must be engaged and Lucia said that she had better supervise their rehearsals herself. Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance would follow God Save the Queen as the Queen arrived, and a selection from The Yeomen of the Guard (Lucia’s lip curled as she spoke the words, for she detested Sullivan) to see her on her way; such simple, reliable music ought not to be beyond even the rude mechanicals of Tilling. Then the police must be organised to prevent the crowds from pressing too close in their enthusiasm; Lucia decided that she had better see the Inspector personally, for there must be no mistake. Then there was the cleaning of the streets and the closing of the necessary roads—could she leave all that to the Town Clerk, or must she see to that herself? On balance, better to do it herself, to ensure that it was done properly. Also she must take personal charge of the decorations. Then there was the problem of selecting a suitable child to present the Queen with a bouquet of flowers; there was the risk that if the task were left to fellow School Governors, they might be swayed by affection for their own offspring, with the result that one of them would be chosen regardless of suitability. Therefore, it was best that she exercised her own powers, as Chairman of the Governors of the school, to make the choice herself. The flowers would, of course, have to be supplied by the Parks Department, and the head gardener, for all his skill in growing flowers, had quite appalling taste, so it rather looked as if she must do that too. Finally, the Mayoral motor was handsome enough, to be sure, but the upholstery was a trifle worn in places, for it seemed extravagant to spend public money on refurbishing it when only Lucia herself saw it. Now, as it happened, she had a vehicle of the same make, only rather more modern, that might be pressed into service instead; and Cadman was a far better driver than the official chauffeur, who was also caretaker of the Town Hall and who tended to brake violently when anything, however distant, crossed his path.

  Lucia consulted the list that she had drawn up and noted with apparent surprise that she would have to do everything herself. But that, she said, was what being a public servant meant.

  The first and greatest task would be to draw up an itinerary. There was so much to see: the Landgate, the Norman Tower, the Museum, the Church ... how could so much be fitted into an afternoon? She felt sorely tempted, she said, to leave it to someone else. But there was, as the saying went, only one woman’s hand on the lonely plough, and so she sent out for town maps, red pencils and rulers and set about calculating the best possible route.

  ‘And what can I do?’ asked Georgie hopefully.

  ‘Why, tell everyone, of course.’

  This was exactly what he wanted her to say, for to be first with news of this sort was a great privilege. But first, before doing anything else, he ordered his cream barathea suit.

  Chapter 13

  Georgie’s announcement caused a minor panic, for it was obvious that outfits that had been ordered for the summer would be far too plain for a Royal visit. It was the civic duty of each citizen to look respectable, for what would the Queen think if she only saw dowdy, depressed-looking women in the streets of the town? She might get the impression that Tilling was a miserable place, and that would never do.

  So there was a great changing of orders and insisting upon rare and exotic colours and fabrics, and the draper began to fear for his sanity. Where orange had previously sufficed, there must now be tangerine; mere fawn was no longer acceptable, café au lait was the only conceivable shade. Mrs. Bartlett, who had before wanted plain blue poplin, now insisted upon navy foulard with a small spot, and Mrs. Plaistow’s urgent request for tea-rose georgette
quite spoilt his afternoon. However, he was a conscientious man and all these extraordinary stuffs were obtained and supplied. Yet from the one person he had expected to change her mind, Mrs. Mapp-Flint, he heard nothing at all, which worried him intensely.

  Lucia, meanwhile, seemed to have been transformed into a small hurricane, so quickly and furiously did she sweep about the town. Georgie saw her rarely between breakfast and dinner, and then it was only to be quizzed about the whereabouts of this or that sheaf of papers that had mysteriously vanished, or to hear some unintelligible complaint against the stupidity and stubbornness of some minor functionary. When she returned, exhausted but still talking, in the evening, she would recite an epic of the day’s complaints, for which Georgie was made to feel in some inexplicable way vaguely responsible. When he asked if there were anything he could do to help, Lucia would reply that only she could hope to bring any sort of order to the chaos that was Tilling (for, according to what Lucia had to say, there was open Bolshevism afoot, especially among the staff of the Parks Department) and that she would be perfectly capable of achieving this aim if only people were not so difficult. Georgie, who had found people difficult all his life, could sympathize with this, but he rather resented being implicitly counted as one of them. When their joyless meals were concluded in the evening, he would often go straight to bed, bewildered and bad-tempered, while Lucia worked on late into the night, surrounded by charts, routes, diagrams, proposed schedules and sketch-maps of the sort usually appended to histories of military campaigns.

  The barathea suit helped Georgie to console himself during this hectic period, for it had to be fitted several times. Just when it seemed almost complete, inspiration came to him in a dream and he insisted on a third button for the jacket. The eloquence and passion with which he argued his case made him feel quite magnificent afterwards, especially since he had heard those words he had never expected to hear from a tailor, ‘Perhaps you are right, sir. I never thought of it like that.’ But the news that Mr. Wyse had commissioned a black frock-coat and a new top hat gave him several sleepless nights. Would it not, after all, have been better to have insisted upon absolute formality? Suppose the Queen thought he was not taking her visit seriously, and that he had turned out in the first suit that had come to hand? But a careful study of the Society papers reassured him that no possible exception could be taken to his choice of costume, and that Mr. Wyse would, if anything, be a trifle overdressed. It was, however, too late to warn him, and impossible to let him know without breaking the confidentiality of the fitting-room. As to his other competitors in the field of male elegance, Georgie felt secure from challenge. The Padre would be bound to wear his clerical weeds and Major Benjy, having been dissuaded by his wife from resurrecting his old uniform, was sulking and had declared that his Sunday suit was good enough for the House of God and therefore must be good enough for the Queen of England.