by Tom Holt
A look of horror crossed the Major’s face, for he was appalled at the thought of such a brutal and illegal act.
‘Steady on, girlie,’ he said, and nearly upset the cake-stand.
‘Well, I hope such a course of action will not prove necessary,’ said Elizabeth firmly. ‘I expect that when Diva realises how unpopular she is becoming as a result of that animal’s activities, she will give the wretched thing away or send it to a dog’s home. Now, let us talk of more pleasant things.’
Georgie escaped from the tea party as soon as he could and stopped off at Wasters to tell Diva of the threat to Paddy. Diva had been taking solace in violent gardening and had, after a long struggle, succeeded in defeating a forsythia.
‘There,’ she said, surveying the battlefield, ‘it’ll look twice as good next year.’
Georgie looked at the devastated shrub and averted his eyes. ‘I’m sure it will,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Listen, I’ve got some very bad news for you.’
Then he told Diva what Elizabeth had said, whereupon Diva wailed loudly and rushed into the house. Georgie followed her, fearing that she might do something desperate.
‘She can’t,’ cried Diva, ‘not Paddy. All he did was dig up a petunia—and it was dead already, Elizabeth had been mulching it. I shall have to go away! I’ll go and stay with my sister-in-law in Harrogate. She wouldn’t follow me there.’
‘She wouldn’t let you go,’ said Georgie. ‘She needs you to make up two tables for Bridge.’
At that moment Paddy himself appeared, with a long-dead thrush held lovingly in his jaws. Diva, in an access of tenderness, tried to clasp him to her, making him sprint for the safety of the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Why doesn’t Lucia come back?’ sobbed Diva, and Georgie, who was much moved, in spite of his fear of dogs, took his leave without another word.
Still more letters awaited Georgie at Mallards and he sat down to redirect them all to Riseholme. He had finished the last one when he realised that it was addressed to himself and not to Lucia. It was in Olga’s handwriting. He opened it with his finger, cutting himself with the thick paper as he did so, and devoured the contents:
Dear Georgie,
Don’t be surprised at all those letters arriving for Lucia, and be sure to send them on to Riseholme as quickly as you can.
Love, as ever,
Olga
After several attempts, Georgie gave up trying to understand this cryptic message and had gathered up Lucia’s mail, readdressed to the Ambermere Arms and ready to be posted, when Foljambe, her normally impassive features betraying a certain excitement, told him that Mrs. Pillson was on the telephone. Georgie hurled himself into the telephone-room and lifted the receiver.
‘Yes?’ he panted.
‘Georgino caro,’ warbled Lucia, ‘come sta? Va bene?’
‘Molto bene, thank you,’ gasped Georgie, ‘and all the more bene for hearing your voice!’
‘How dolce of you to say so, caro. Such a delightful vaccazione I’ve been having. All well with you, I hope. Any news?’
It was as if nothing had happened. Of course, she would have read his letters and from them found out that the awful mistake had been discovered and that everyone was truly sorry. Nevertheless, to chirrup away in Italian as though the horrors of the past week had not occurred—Olga was right. Lucia was bigger than anyone in the entire world, and with her giant stride she could cross chasms and abysses as though they were mere cracks in the pavement.
‘Now listen carefully, mio caro sposo, Lucia has some-fink to tell Georgino. Can Georgino guess?’
‘No,’ said Georgie—then feeling that he might have seemed rather abrupt, he added, ‘Georgino so vewwy stupido.’
A silvery laugh, untarnished by distance, tinkled in his ears. ‘Nonsense, and me cattiva Lucia to tease ’oo. But tell me first, have you missed me? And has Elizabeth been simply dreadful?’
‘Yes to both questions. She’s been opening things and laying foundation stones as if she were the real Mayor, and she’s making Diva get rid of Paddy.’
‘No!’ For a moment the serenity of Lucia’s voice might have been disturbed and steel seemed to replace silver. ‘We must see about that when I get home.’
‘You’re really coming back?’ cried Georgie.
‘Of course, caro. I shall be arriving at eleven-o’clock tomorrow. But don’t you want to know the answer to my riddle?’
‘Yes, please. Is it something exciting?’
‘Very exciting. All those lovely letters you’ve been sending on to me—guess who they’re from? No? Very well. They’re from all those people we invited to take part in the Tilling Festival last year—you remember, when they were too busy and couldn’t accept. Well, now they’ve all written to ask if we are having a festival this year and can they take part—and some others, too, whom I do not recall having invited, very important people, some of them. Remarkable, non è vero?’
‘Astonishing,’ replied Georgie. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Do? Why, organise a festival for them all to come to, of course. Georgie, there’s not a moment to be lost. I am writing to them all, just to tell them that there will be a festival and that I will send them the details soon. Then, tomorrow I’ll get to work properly. Arrivederci, Georgino.’
Georgie hung up the receiver and, hazy with bewilderment, sat down and tried to get on with his embroidery. But he could not concentrate and his mind kept dwelling on Olga’s peculiar note and Lucia’s extraordinary revelation. When the truth finally dawned on him he became so excited that he accidentally speared himself with his needle and did not notice for several minutes. He badly needed to tell somebody, but there was nobody that he could tell.
He could not continue with anything as mundane as embroidery so he went upstairs to his bibelot cabinet and reverently drew out the stone bird with the grapes in its mouth. Although it was not his day for dusting and polishing his collection, he rubbed the bird delicately with his softest duster. As he did so, he pondered whether he should tell Lucia when she arrived; but she would probably rather not know that it was Olga who had begged, cajoled or bullied all those terribly famous people into offering their talents to the Tilling Festival. How Olga had managed it he couldn’t imagine, but, of course, to Olga all things were possible.
Even now he was restless and went into the telephone-room to tidy it up before Lucia’s return. The pile of readdressed letters need not be posted now, but traces must be removed of things that might have an unpleasant association for her when she came to start work on this great new project. Once again, his eye fell upon the little book with the notes on Mayoral duties that Lucia had been translating and the thought of one passage came into his mind. He found the place and read it through again.
Soon it would be time to dress for dinner at Starling Cottage. The start of Elizabeth’s reign had been one long succession of social events, all of them so far perfectly horrible. With Diva still under embargo, three of them would have to sit and watch while the other four played Bridge. Then he remembered that this tyranny would soon be over, that Lucia was coming back. There was some news to cheer up the miserable gathering. It occurred to him then that although he did not like surprises, he had no reason to believe that Elizabeth felt the same way; or, for that matter, Lucia ....
When Elizabeth and Benjy rang the bell of Starling Cottage they could hear the sound of merry, cheerful conversation, with frequent cries of ‘No!’ and ‘How fascinating!’, such as had not been heard in Tilling for a little while. Everyone seemed particularly pleased to see them and there was no shortage of volunteers to yield places to them at the one Bridge-table that could be furnished. Elizabeth had Mr. Wyse for her partner, and Benjy had Susan, and, as the rubber progressed, Elizabeth strained to hear what Georgie and the Bartletts, sitting at the other end of the drawing-room, were saying. But their voices, although excited, were low and indistinct, and so she gave up the attempt and tried to concentrate on the game, whi
ch she and Mr. Wyse were winning by a large margin. Benjy, too, seemed to be acting strangely, although he showed no obvious signs of intoxication. Was he up to something too? Elizabeth thought hard and deduced that his strangeness of manner—a rather pronounced obsequiousness, an unwonted note of chivalry in his Bridge-playing—had begun shortly after he had come in from drinking his port in the dining-room ....
‘Do you think it was wise to let Benjy in on the secret?’ whispered Evie nervously.
‘Of course,’ replied Georgie. ‘He suffers more than any of us.’
‘Oh look,’ said Evie, ‘they’ve finished their rubber. Now?’
‘Now,’ said Georgie firmly, ‘and be careful.’
‘Let me see,’ Elizabeth was saving, ‘I make that three shillings and sixpence you owe us, Benjy-boy.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Benjy. ‘I made it four shillings myself.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Three and six.’
Benjy insisted on paying Susan’s losses as well as his own, saying that his errors had brought about the disaster, and he counted out the money into Elizabeth’s hand.
‘Thank you, dear. Now shall we have another rubber for the poor outcasts?’
‘Not for us, thank you,’ said Georgie, ‘we’ve had such fun just watching. You played that last hand splendidly, Elizabeth.’
The praise was, in fact, merited, for Elizabeth had revoked quite palpably and the skill with which she had covered up this error was of a high order. She thanked Georgie for his compliment and Georgie thanked her back. Then there was silence and the Padre nudged Georgie with his elbow. But Georgie seemed speechless, and so the Padre said:
‘I believe Mr. Georgie has somewhat to ask ye, Mistress Mapp-Flint. Go on, man. Speak.’
Georgie coughed nervously and asked Elizabeth if she would like to come to tea tomorrow. Elizabeth pondered awhile under cover of flicking through her pocket-diary, for there was something strange about all this; but she could not see any reason why she should not accept. So she thanked Georgie and Georgie thanked her again. Then, quite suddenly, everybody seemed to notice how late it was, and soon only Elizabeth and Benjy were left. So, although it was still quite early, Elizabeth said goodbye to the Wyses and she and the Major started on the long journey back to Grebe.
‘Something very odd is going on,’ said Elizabeth, as they turned left in front of Mallards and went down West Street. ‘And I have no idea what it can be.’
‘Same here, old girl,’ said the Major innocently.
As soon as they were out of sight, shadowy forms began to creep stealthily towards the door of Starling Cottage. At first, an observer would have taken them for the smugglers and pirates whose spirits haunted Porpoise Street. But, as the door opened and light poured through it, they could be plainly recognised as Georgie and the Bartletts, followed by Diva and Irene. They went into the house and the door closed behind them.
‘Buongiorno, Georgino!’ cried Lucia, as she stepped into the house that she had possibly renounced for ever. ‘Ah, how pleasant to be back in dear Tilling again after my holiday.’
Now it was in Georgie’s mind to suggest that it had not been a holiday at all and to have a serious talk with her; but he remembered the elephant and decided against it. One cannot talk seriously with an elephant.
‘And how was dear Riseholme?’ he therefore cried as lightly as possible. ‘How I wish I could have come with you.’
‘As beautiful as ever, except that dear Adele has planted parsley—think of it, Georgie, parsley—in Perdita’s garden and decorated Midsummer Night’s Dream in salmon-pink silk and Art Deco. How does The Rubaiyat put it, caro?
They say the lion and the leopard keep
The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep.
Or some such words. And poor Daisy has become quite eccentric with no one to keep her in order—I believe that dear Adele and Colonel Cresswell quite encourage her. She could speak of nothing but vegetarianism, and when I went to dinner with her what do you think we had? Barley-bread and rye-bread and millet cakes and Malvern water to drink—for she will not drink the water from the tap, which she says is full of bacteria. She declared over and over again that she would not allow a living thing to be killed for her benefit—she was wearing tennis-shoes, for leather is quite forsworn—and when I told her, as gently as possible, that cereal plants and flax are living things too, and all the vegetable kingdom, come to that, she grew quite distraught. I had hoped that my time in Riseholme might have had some lasting effect, but there. Alles vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichnis, as Goethe so succinctly puts it.’
After a week without her, Georgie found that this burst of concentrated Lucia (The Rubaiyat, vegetarianism and Goethe) quite disoriented him, like a waft of powerful gas, and he did not know what to say. But there was no need for him to say anything, and scarcely any opportunity.
‘And now to business, Georgie. So many letters. Who is this?—the paper-knife, dear, if you please. Thank you. Ah, Signor Cortese, no less—you remember him, Georgie, his glorious Lucretia, first sung in your little cottage at Riseholme.’
Lucia’s brow clouded over and Georgie guessed that Signor Cortese, who was Italian, and who knew little English, had written his letter to Lucia in la bella lingua, for Lucia, after staring at the letter for a while, put it back in its envelope, said ‘Dear Signor Cortese!’ and moved on to the next one.
‘From Miss Olga Bracely, Georgie,’ she said, and fixed him with her bright, piercing eye. Perhaps she had guessed everything—how Olga had rounded up all these distinguished people like a sheepdog, and had driven them into Lucia’s fold—or perhaps not. ‘I am sure we shall be able to find something for dear Olga to do. In fact, if she can spare the time, I think we ought to ask her to join our Festival Committee. What do you say, dear? Such a capable, influential woman.’
What Georgie said can be guessed and Lucia turned to the rest of her letters and called for strong black coffee. Georgie, feeling drained, tottered into the drawing-room. Then he took something from his waistcoat pocket and hugged it to his bosom.
Lucia stayed in the telephone-room until luncheon, and throughout the meal remained blithe and light-hearted, chattering away gaily in a virtually incomprehensible mixture of Italian and baby-talk. For a moment, Georgie believed that she had forgotten all about the Tapestry curtains and her tempestuous departure from Tilling; but an elephant never forgets. Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, she put down her fork and looked Georgie in the eye.
‘That reminds me,’ she said (they had been talking about Shakespeare). ‘We shall need some new curtains for the garden-room. Something bright and cheerful, now that summer is upon us.’
After lunch, Georgie was thoroughly briefed on the Festival, and the list of names that Lucia read out to him was quite staggering. Omnipotent as Olga was, she could not have mobilised so many legions of the illustrious. The project had started to gather its own momentum; Great One had mentioned it to Great One, suggesting that it might be rather fun, and no one had wanted to be left out. So thrilling was the prospect that Georgie lost all track of time, and it was only when he glanced out of the garden-room window and saw a large number of people standing outside that he remembered that his own particular triumph was about to take place. Fortunately, Lucia had her back to the window and had not seen. But where was Elizabeth? Had Benjy’s nerve failed him, and had he betrayed the secret? But there she was, striding up the hill, and Major Benjy behind her, looking extremely nervous. It was time.
‘Excuse me for a moment, Lucia,’ said Georgie, and he slipped from the room. From the drawer of the desk in the telephone-room he took Lucia’s notebook; then he opened the front-door and descended the steps. Everyone was there; the Padre and wee wifie, Diva, in tea-rose georgette, with Paddy on a chain, Susan and Algernon Wyse, on foot, and Susan hedged about with sables, quaint Irene, carrying something in a brown paper-bag; and the Mapp-Flints, he trying vainly to hide behind Diva, she on the point of fl
ight. But Irene saw her and drew from its paper-bag the dinner-bell.
‘Stay right there, de Map,’ she cried, ‘or I’ll follow you all the way back to Grebe.’
‘Is everyone here?’ cried Georgie. ‘Very well, then. Ring the bell, please, Miss Coles.’
Irene rang her bell and cried out ‘Oyez, oyez!’
Elizabeth, seeing her chance, tried to edge away, but Lucy, Irene’s gigantic maid, blocked her path and she knew that escape was impossible. Georgie cleared his throat and began to read from the notebook.
‘If the Mayor should refuse,’ he tried to say, but a lump the size of a tennis-ball had found its way into his throat and he stopped.
‘You’re useless,’ said Irene. ‘Give it to me!’
She snatched the book from his hand and rang the bell again. ‘Listen, people of Tilling,’ she sang out in a loud, carrying voice. ‘Extract from the Ancient Duties and Privileges of the Mayors of Tilling, used thereof from time out of mind, which Men’s mind cannot think the—what’s that word? Oh, yes—contrary. If the Mayor should refuse, and if the Mayor, so chosen and elected ....’
Lucia, hearing the bell, looked round and saw what looked like a mob assembled in the street. At first, thoughts of Bolshevism and Revolution filled her mind, then she recognised their faces. Georgie and Irene, and Elizabeth looking very bad-tempered, and all her friends—and what was Irene reading?
‘... All the whole commons together shall go sit beneath her house and entreat until such time as she come forth ....’
For a moment she did not understand; then she understood. Everyone was calling out ‘Lucia!’ or ‘Come forth!’ Even Elizabeth, with a face like a thunder-cloud, managed to shriek, ‘Do come forth, you sweet Mayor!’ while Major Benjy was roaring like a lion and waving his hat. She rose and left the room.