by Tom Holt
This final, unspeakable blow caused Elizabeth to hurl the dress (which was still in her hand) across the counter, cry in a fearful voice, ‘Charge it to Miss Coles’s account!’, and surge forth into the High Street.
Since Irene had no account at the draper’s the bill remained unpaid for some time until that worthy man put it on Elizabeth’s account as ‘Sundries’ and was finally paid.
Chapter 14
All human beings have at least one talent, and Irene Coles had several. She was a gifted painter (although she tended to treat this gift as a child treats an expensive present that it does not really care for); she had a quite remarkable gift of mimicry which she used to persecute those of her fellow creatures who roused her displeasure; these blessings Nature had bestowed upon her. Such gifts should have been enough for anyone, and there were those who would have said that she did not deserve any of them. But the Creator had bestowed upon her one other facility, greater than any of these, which she exploited to the best of her ability. Just as the offspring of the rich and powerful are said to be born with a silver spoon in their mouths, so Irene had come into the world with the apple of Discord gripped in her hand. In other words, she had the rare ability to irritate people at will. This talent she had recognised at an early age, and she had devoted her life to it.
In the pursuit of her vocation, she managed to make herself extremely unpopular by her quite outrageous behaviour. It was an open secret that she was a Socialist and an admirer of Russian Communism (although before that she had been fiercely pro-German). Her atheism, for which she called upon God to forgive her, was a constant thorn in the Padre’s ample flesh. In her life in Art, her object seemed always to offend; in her relationships with her fellow-creatures, therefore, she could not in all conscience spare any of them, whatever her personal feelings, without betraying her Calling. To this rule she made only one exception, namely Lucia. Within hours of Lucia’s first arrival in Tilling, Irene had adopted her as her personal goddess, so that, whatever Lucia might do or say, Irene would usually find some way of admiring it, at whatever expense to her own integrity. Her warlike nature longed for conflict, and in order to gratify this desire she was prepared to strike the most extraordinary attitudes, to deny what was obviously true and to assert what was patently false.
Under any other circumstances, therefore, she would have awoken on the morning of the Royal Visit with the express purpose of doing something to demonstrate an unreasoning Republicanism. But since Lucia had, so to speak, taken the whole affair under her wing, Irene was powerless to act. With a wistful sigh, she left unmade the banner that she had dreamt of, left her dinner bell, the faithful companion of her worst excesses, on the mantelpiece, and sat down, with the blinds drawn, to start work on a secret anti-Monarchist cartoon.
Thus it was that she missed the last frantic preparations for the Queen’s arrival, and did not see the Royal Train pulling into the station or any of what followed. But curiosity is the bane of all resolutions, and she found it hard to sleep that night for wondering how Lucia had fared. So, when Tuesday dawned and the weary hours before marketing time had slipped away, she put on her reefer-jacket and a woollen hat and hurried from Taormina to find out what had happened.
The people of Tilling, had they been asked at any other time, would have said that, by and large, they had little use for Irene Coles. But on that particular day, she had a vital rôle to perform as a listener, for she was the only person in the town who had not witnessed the events of the preceding day, and to her alone could the whole story be told. Since the only point of things happening was that those who observed these things could tell other people about them, there was a great demand for an audience, and by the time Irene got back to her house, she had heard the tale from every conceivable source (sometimes from two or three sources at once; surely the stuff of an historian’s dream) and her thirst for knowledge had been satisfied.
She had heard how the train had been held up for five minutes by a fallen branch on the line, and how the Town Band had stood playing Elgar until they were out of breath; how the child that Lucia had chosen to replace the victim of mumps had thrust her bouquet into the Royal hand and immediately burst into tears, which Her Majesty found rather touching; how Lucia had, the night before, sent everyone handwritten notes with a suggestion as to where they might stand in order to get a good view of the Queen, and how, as soon as the Queen arrived, she had given Lucia a list of the things she wanted to see, none of which appeared on Lucia’s own carefully compiled itinerary; how the Queen had apologised most graciously for this sudden change of plan and how (this was said most grudgingly) Lucia had coped splendidly.
Irene heard that, instead of the Norman Tower and the Landgate, Her Majesty had wanted to visit one house whose conservatory contained an unusual variety of orchid, and another whose owner (that wretched stockbroker in Church Square again) possessed a small but quite unique collection of Chinese jade, which the Padre, the only member of the community to have seen it, had said looked like a collection of bars of soap, but which the Queen had admired enormously. Into Irene’s ears was poured the whole tale of the Queen’s tea at Mallards; how Elizabeth had appeared wearing, not the Macclesfield silk that Diva and Evie had promised, but last year’s brown marocain, as antiquated and obsolete as a wheel-lock musket on a modern battlefield; how, at the last moment, Lucia’s best silver tea-pot had mysteriously vanished and all that could be found was a brown earthenware vessel, belonging to Foljambe; and how the Queen had smiled when she saw it and declared that it was the image of the one she used herself to pour her husband’s breakfast tea. All this Irene heard, and thereat she rejoiced. But the part of the day’s events that everyone was most keen to tell her about, that part which inspired the greatest eloquence, was not quite so pleasant to listen to, and the way in which it was described, not by only one or two, but by all her sources, left Irene in no doubt what the outcome was likely to be.
‘Oh golly,’ she said, as she let herself into Taormina, ‘she’s done it this time.’
What she had heard was this. When tea was finished and Lucia’s motor stood outside the open door of Mallards to take the Queen to the station, the eager spectators gathered outside had seen Her Majesty emerge into the hall (she had been in the garden-room before, so rumour had it) and one step behind her, chattering away as endlessly as, according to Elizabeth, she had chattered throughout tea, was Lucia. Although the crowd outside could not make out what was said inside the hall, it seemed likely they were talking about the Tapestry curtains, for, as they spoke, Foljambe and Grosvenor appeared in the garden-room window, unhooking the curtains, with Georgie and Elizabeth directing the operations and getting under their feet. Once the Queen and her hostess were through the door and on the step, however, the spectators could hear every word that was said. To their horror they heard Lucia imply that the curtains, which she was proposing to give to the Queen as President of the Needlewomen’s Guild, had been designed and executed by herself. One phrase in particular which condemned her, the one phrase which was heard and confirmed by all those present, was ‘a poor, poor thing, ma’am, but mine own’, which Susan Wyse had thought was a quotation, but which everyone else had said was typical Lucia, in her most pompous vein.
The next minute, Georgie, with Elizabeth at his heels, had appeared with the curtains neatly folded in his arms, and an attendant had taken them from him. Lucia had then dropped a deep curtsey (she must have been practising) and the Royal party had departed for the station, leaving behind a buzz of furious and resentful chatter. In short, Lucia had claimed for herself all the credit for the wretched curtains, which the women (and men) of Tilling had laboured so long and so hard to create. It was monstrous, unforgivable, impossible.
Of the rest of the Visit there was little to say; but about Lucia’s crime, her unspeakable, unpardonable offence, there was a great deal to say, and the people of Tilling went on saying it. This was no matter to be dealt with by merely ignoring Lucia’s exist
ence, for they knew, from recent experience, that excommunication simply gave Lucia a chance to catch up on her reading. Harsh words needed to be said, and their only fear was that Lucia might hide in Mallards and not come out to hear them. Yet such was her extraordinary effrontery that she appeared that very evening at the dinner party at Starling Cottage that should have been a celebration of the Visit. She had arrived in the middle of a Declaration of War against herself, and had seemed quite surprised and upset at the accusations flung at her. Things had been said, voices raised, and Lucia had gone home without any dinner. She had also gone without Georgie, for he, who had with his own hands embroidered the largest part of those fatal curtains, when he heard what Lucia had said while he was still in the garden-room supervising their removal, was as furious as anyone. Indeed, it was behind Georgie’s banner that the Great Revolt started; for a man who had taken tea with and offered sponge-fingers to the Queen of England cannot be lightly crushed beneath the heel of a thoughtless, arrogant woman.
It was as if the world of Tilling had suddenly been blown apart, and the quarrel over County Life seemed like a friendly dispute over Bridge by comparison.
When Georgie returned to Mallards after dinner at Starling Cottage Lucia had already gone to bed, leaving behind her on the hall-table a savagely worded note in which occurred phrases like ‘extraordinary behaviour’, ‘entirely unwarranted conclusions’ and ‘extreme ingratitude’, some of which referred to Georgie and some to other people, and from which Georgie, as he read it, gathered that she intended to leave for Riseholme in the morning to stay at the Ambermere Arms for an indefinite period, as she needed a complete rest from her exertions (there followed a vituperative passage about the pointlessness of ever doing anything for anybody) and a change of surroundings.
Having read this horrible epistle, Georgie crumpled it into a ball, then spread it out again and re-read it. There was no mistaking what Lucia meant: she was washing her hands of Tilling and considering a return to her former realm.
Strangely enough, Georgie slept soundly that night. Next day, while the High Street was humming with excited talk, he sat in the giardino segreto (or Queen Mary’s Garden) and tried to think things out. Lucia had left before he had woken, taking with her Grosvenor and all her piano music. Another note, cold to the point of formality, had awaited him, requesting him to forward any letters and not to contact her unnecessarily, for fear that her rest-cure might be interrupted and thus deprived of its value. Her primary reason for choosing Riseholme was obvious, and he felt a strong wave of sympathy for Daisy Quantock, on whom Lucia would, indirectly, vent her wrath. But there was a sinister undertone to both letters; almost as if Lucia were considering quitting Tilling for good and going back permanently to Riseholme, where she had never been seriously challenged and where she could be confident of resuming unopposed supremacy. God help Riseholme if she did return; years of fighting with Elizabeth had so sharpened her teeth and claws that they would never be able to withstand her.
The possibility of Lucia’s never coming back filled Georgie with horror; what would become of him? Suppose she sold Mallards and bought back The Hurst from Adele Brixton? He would either have to follow her, leaving the pleasant life to which he had become attached, or live in a state of separation from his wife in Tilling. Now that his anger had cooled a little he realised that the latter course would be unthinkable; yet so deep was the wound in his soul that he would rather be rid of Lucia altogether than allow that deed of hers to be forgiven and forgotten as if it were no more than a revoke at Bridge. Her lie about the curtains was bad enough, but that could be pardoned. What he could not let pass was her storming off to Worcestershire and the two hideous notes she had written him. Of course, it might not be entirely his own choice. He had never seen Lucia as angry as she had been the previous evening; all her self-control had melted, like chocolate on a biscuit, and she had become shrill and unpleasant. Whether this new Lucia would replace the old one, or whether the metamorphosis was purely temporary he did not know; neither could he judge how deeply Lucia was offended with him. For all he knew she might not want to see him ever again.
He tried to think of all the things that would continue to make his life worthwhile without Lucia: his bibelots, his furniture, his embroidery, tea parties, his cape with the fur collar. All of these would be as hollow as an egg from which the yolk has been sucked without Lucia to discuss them with or show them to. There was only one thing, or rather one person, who could brighten life without Lucia, and she was far away, he could not say where. He tried to think of her, but the thought would not form in his mind; like a suspicious animal that one tries to attract by the offer of some small delicacy, it came close, took fright and disappeared, and he could not apprehend it.
As he sat among his abandoned croquet-hoops, Foljambe drew near and announced that there was a telephone call for him. Wearily he rose to his feet and trailed into the telephone-room, where Lucia’s schedules and diagrams were still scattered over the table, chairs and floor, and took the instrument.
‘Georgie!’ cried a beautiful, carefree voice. ‘How are you?’
He started violently and closed his eyes lest the tears escape them.
‘Olga!’ he nearly sobbed. ‘Is that you?’
‘That’s right, Georgie,’ said the voice. ‘How lovely to hear you again. Now listen, because I haven’t much time. I’m in Hastings at a ghastly luncheon, and when I’ve escaped from them all, I’m going to leap into my car and drive like the wind to Tilling and beg a cup of tea and some divine gossip from you. So you must tell Mrs. Mapp-Flint and all the other fine ladies that you’ve got a cold and can’t come to tea today—you and your tea parties, Georgie. What would Ceylon do without you! Give my love to Lucia. Expect me at half-past four.’
Before he could say anything she was gone. Georgie stood for a moment like a statue, the receiver in his hand, then he replaced it gently, as if he were afraid of waking it. Suddenly it seemed as if there was a faint possibility that everything might turn out right after all. As he turned to leave the room, he stooped to pick up off the floor a notebook on which was written in Lucia’s small, businesslike handwriting: ‘Duties and Privileges of the Mayors of Tilling’. He turned the pages, his eyes falling on that section describing the procedure to be followed if the Mayor, having been elected, should be unwilling to take office. He read it and shook his head sadly, then, replacing the notebook on the table, he went to prepare for Olga’s visit.
At last, at long last, Olga arrived. The hours until half-past four had seemed like centuries, but longer, more painful still were the five minutes after that, when Georgie sat in the garden-room window and thought that she might have decided not to come after all. But at twenty-five minutes to five a magnificent Lagonda car had drawn up outside, from which had stepped Olga Bracely, looking as beautiful and natural as ever. She saw him sitting in the window and called out ‘Coo-ee!’ (for had she not recently taken Australia by storm?) whereupon Georgie leapt from his place on the hot-water pipes and dashed inside the house to open the door to her.
‘Now then,’ she said, as Foljambe brought the tea-pot that only yesterday had poured tea for the Queen of England. ‘Tell me all about it.’
‘All about what?’ said Georgie. Supernatural as he knew Olga to be, how could she possibly know about Lucia’s desertion?
‘Queen Mary, of course. Haven’t you seen the papers? The moment I saw them I had to fly to your side and congratulate you. Your photograph, Georgie, in the Daily Express. You look just like Sir Walter Raleigh, with your beard and your cape—but why didn’t you throw it over a puddle for her to walk on, and make everything perfect? Don’t say there was no puddle—Foljambe could have brought some water in a jug.’
Georgie did not answer. The Visit and the tea party, a mere twenty-four hours ago, seemed so impossibly remote that he could not associate himself with them. Olga looked at him strangely for a moment and asked him what the matter was. Out came Georgie’s story in
a torrent, starting with the history of the Tapestry and its conversion into curtains, continuing through the events of the last few months and ending in an emotional peroration in which Georgie was able to say some of the things about Lucia that he had only been able to think since yesterday evening.
‘She’s impossible,’ he declared, ‘absolutely impossible. I never get a moment’s peace. She quarrels with everyone and spends her life trying to put Elizabeth down, and then she pretends that quarrels pain her and that she couldn’t care one little bit what Elizabeth does. One minute she is going on about this Tilling Festival of hers—you’d have thought she would have learnt her lesson last year when she sent invitations to all those people and they said they were too busy—and the next moment she is up to her eyebrows in musty old books, for days on end, trying to prove Elizabeth isn’t a Norman. She’s thoughtless and self-centred and I’ve had enough of her. And now she’s going to sell Mallards and go back to Riseholme, where she’ll spend the rest of her life being beastly to you, because everybody there likes you and she thinks you do it on purpose.’
‘Being liked, you mean?’ asked Olga.
‘Yes. That’s how her mind works. And what am I meant to do? I suppose I’ll have to go with her and leave all my friends here. But suppose she doesn’t want me—there were those beastly letters. Where am I going to live? I shan’t forgive her and that’s final. I couldn’t face moving house again—all my things might get broken or lost and there wouldn’t be room at The Hurst for a lot of my best furniture.’ Georgie suddenly realised that his complaints were becoming trivial, so gathering steam he went on, ‘Why, the Queen of England was here yesterday and everyone should be thrilled and excited, and they’re not. It’s all Lucia’s fault, she spoilt it. No. I shan’t forgive her and that’s final!’