Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie

by Nancy Mitford

  Heatherley squeezed back into his cupboard, and Sophia, highly elated and with her pain quite forgotten, skipped off and slid down the banisters to her own landing. They had evidently got away with that conversation all right, as no masked men pounced out on her and she was soon in bed, kicking Milly off the warm patch which she wanted for her own feet.

  10

  When Sophia awoke the next day, she had the same feeling with which, as a child, she had greeted Christmas morning, or the day of the Pantomime. A feeling of happy anticipation. At first, and this also was like when she was little, she could not even remember what it was all about; she simply knew that something particularly lively was going to happen.

  Elsie, the housemaid, called her and put a breakfast tray in front of her on which there were coffee, toast and butter, and a nice brown boiled egg, besides a heap of letters and The Times. Sophia had woken up enough to remember that she was now a glamorous female spy; she put on a swansdown jacket, sat up properly, and admonished Milly for refusing to go downstairs.

  ‘Drag her,’ she said to Elsie. Elsie dragged, and they left the room with a slow, shuffling movement, accompanied by the bedside rug.

  The letters looked dull; Sophia began on her egg, and was attacking it with vigour when she saw that something was written on it in pencil. Not hard-boiled, she hoped. Not at all. the writing was extremely faint, but she could make out the word AGONY followed by 22.

  Sophia was now in agony, for this must be, of course, a code. She knew that spies and counter-spies had the most peculiar ways of communicating with each other, winking in Morse and so on; writing on eggs would be everyday work for them. She abandoned the delicious egg, done so nicely to a turn, and rolled her eyes round the pink ceiling with blue clouds of her bedroom while she tried the word AGONY backwards and forwards and upside down. She made anagrams of the letters. She looked at the egg in her looking-glass bed-post, but all in vain. She would have to get hold of the Chief at once, but how was she to do that? Impossible to send Elsie upstairs with instructions to see if Mr Egg was still in Miss Turnbull’s cupboard, if so, Lady Sophia’s compliments and would he step downstairs. In any case he was unlikely to have remained in the cupboard all night, and Florence’s bed, a narrow single one, would not harbour any but impassioned lovers with the smallest degree of comfort. This, she somehow felt, Florence and Heatherley were not.

  Elsie now returned with Milly, who once more dived under the eiderdown, and, with a piercing shore, resumed her slumbers.

  ‘Did she do anything?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘Good girl. Would you be very kind,’ said Sophia, ‘and go and ask Miss Turnbull if she would give me Mr Egg’s telephone number. Say I’m short of a man for tonight.’

  Florence, who had only come off duty at six, was displeased at being woken up. She was understood by Elsie to say that Mr Egg had gone to Lympne for the day, and had her ladyship remembered that there was to be a Brotherhood meeting at 98 Granby Gate that evening.

  Sophia saw that she had been rather dense. Of course she might have realised that if Heth had been available to see her there would have been no need for him to write on her egg. Then she saw light.

  ‘He, Egg, is in agony, because he is unable 2 see me before 2 night.’ Sophia turned to her breakfast with a happy appreciation both of its quality and of her own brilliance.

  She picked up The Times and read about the Pets’ Programme. It seemed to have fallen very flat with the musical critic. ‘Not with Milly though.’ Then, without looking at the war news, which she guessed would be dull, she turned to the front page and read, as she always did, the agony column. She usually found one or two advertisements that made her feel happy, and today there was a particularly enjoyable one. ‘Poor old gentleman suffering from malignant disease would like to correspond with pretty young lady. Box 22 The Times.’

  When Sophia had finished laughing she became quite wistful. She always called Sir Ivor the poor old gentleman, and he called her the pretty young lady. If only he were not being a dreadful old traitor in Berlin, she would have cut the advertisement out and sent it to him. ‘I never should have expected to miss him as much as I do, but the fact is there are certain jokes which I can only share with him. Funny thing too,’ she thought, ‘suffering from malignant disease, just what he is. National Socialism.’ She cut out the advertisement and put it in her jewel case, deciding that if she ever had the opportunity to do so, through neutrals, she would send it to Sir Ivor in the hopes of making him feel small. Her blood boiled as she thought again of his treachery and of the programme of Gamp song’s, which was exactly similar to one he had given before the Chief Scout some months previously, and which had included that prime and perennial favourite:

  ‘There was a bee i ee i ee,

  Sal on a wall y all y all y all y all,

  It gave a buzz y wuz y wuz y wuz y wuz,

  And thal was all y all y all y all y all.’

  Sir Ivor and Dr Goebbels between them had altered the words of this classic to:

  ‘The British E i ee i ee,

  Sal on a wall y all y all y all y all,

  Like Humpty Dumpty ump ty ump ty ump ty ump,

  It had a fall y all y all y all y all.’

  So queer it seemed, and so horrible, that somebody who had had the best that England can give should turn against her like that. Sir Ivor had received recognition of every kind, both public and private, from all parts of the British Empire, of his great gifts. Had he been one of those geniuses who wither in attics, it would have been much more understandable. Sophia got out of bed, and while her bath was running in she did a few exercises in order to get fit for the dangers and exactions of counter-espionage.

  On the way to St. Anne’s, Sophia bought a Manual of Morse Code which she fully intended to learn that day. When she arrived however she found, greatly to her disgust, that, as it was Thursday, there was a great heap of clean washing to be counted.

  She supposed that she must have a brain rather like that of a mother bird who, so the naturalists tell us, cannot count beyond three; counting the washing was her greatest trial. There would be between twenty and thirty overalls to be checked and put away in the nurses’ pigeonholes in the ‘dressing-room’ which was a sacking partition labelled, rather crudely, Female. Now Sophia, with an effort of concentration, could stagger up to twelve or thirteen; having got so far the telephone bell would ring, somebody would come and ask her a question, or her own mind would stray in some new direction. Then she would begin all over again.

  It generally took her about half an hour before she could make the numbers tally twice, and even then it was far from certain that they were correct. On this occasion she made them alternately twenty-five and twenty-eight, so she assumed the more optimistic estimate to be the right one, and stowed them away in their pigeonholes. She was longing to tell Sister Wordsworth about Greta and the main drain, but of course that would never do. She did ask Mr Stone whether the drain really flowed underneath the First Aid Post and could she see it, to which he replied that it did, and that she could, but in his opinion she would not enjoy such an experience.

  ‘Rats,’ he said. Sophia thought of Greta and shuddered. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he went on, ‘some fellows are going down there this evening to have a look round. I expect you could go with them if you like.’

  Sophia asked what time, and when she was told at half-past ten, she declined the offer. It would require a bigger bribe than the main drain to get her back to St. Anne’s when her work there was finished.

  She spent the rest of the day learning Morse Code, partly because she wished to be a well equipped counter-spy and partly (and this spurred her to enormous industry) so that she could wink at Olga in it the next time they met. There was a photograph of Olga in that week’s Tatler wearing a black velvet crinoline with a pearl cross, and toying with a guitar, beneath which was written the words, ‘This Society beauty does not require a uniform for her important war wo
rk.’

  Sophia, thinking of this, redoubled her efforts of dot and dash. But she found it far from easy, even more difficult than counting overalls, though the reward of course was greater. She sat, winking madly into her hand looking-glass, until she was off duty, by which time she knew the letters A, B and C perfectly, and E and F when she thought very hard. The opportunity for showing off her new accomplishment came that evening. She had gone on duty at the Post earlier than usual, as Sister Wordsworth wanted to go out; leaving it correspondingly early, she was on her way home when she remembered that her house would be full of Brothers. So she looked in at the Ritz. Here the first person she saw was Rudolph, and sitting beside him was a heaving mass of sables which could only conceal the beautiful Slavonic person of La Gogothska herself, in the uniform, so to speak, of her important war-work.

  ‘Hullo, my darling,’ said Rudolph, fetching a chair for her. ‘You’re off very early. I’m dining with you tonight, though you may not know it. Elsie said I could, and she’s telling your cook.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sophia, without listening much. Her eyes were fixed upon Olga and she was working away with concentration.

  ‘What are you making those faces at me for?’ said Olga crossly.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Sophia, ‘how disappointing. It was just a bet I had with Fred. I betted him sixpence that you were in the secret service, he was so positive you couldn’t be, and I said I could prove it. Well, I have proved it, and I have lost sixpence, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, darling, I was just telling you, in Morse Code, to proceed to the ladies’ cloakroom, and are you proceeding? No. Have you made any excuse for not doing so? No. Therefore, as you evidently don’t know Morse Code which is a sine qua non for any secret agent, you can’t be that beautiful female spy we all hoped you were.’ Actually, of course, Sophia had only been winking out, and with great trouble at that, A, B and C.

  Olga said, ‘Nonsense. Morse Code is never used in this war; it’s completely out of date. Why, what would be the use of it?’ and she gave a theatrically scornful droop of the eyelids.

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, dear, it would be a very great deal of use indeed under certain circumstances. Supposing one happened to be gagged, for an example, it would be possible to wink out messages to the bystanders which, if they understood Morse, would save one’s life.’

  ‘Gagged,’ said Olga, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Gagged indeed. Bystanders! Darling, you have been reading Valentine Williams, I suppose. Let me tell you that in real life the secret service is very different from what the outside public, like you, imagine it to be. Gagged! No, really, I must tell the Chief that.’

  ‘Do,’ said Sophia. ‘He’ll roar, I should think. Naturally, I don’t know much about these things. Well, then, what shall I do with the sixpence?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when the war is over. Are you working very hard in your little First Aid Post? Poor Olga is overwhelmed with work. Figure to yourselves, last night I was up till six – even the Chief with his iron constitution was half dead. I had to keep on making cups of black coffee for him, and even so he fell asleep twice. Of course, the responsibility is very wearing, especially for the Chief – if things went wrong, it doesn’t bear thinking of, what would happen. My knowledge of Russian, however, is standing us in good stead.’

  Olga had learnt Russian when she was courting Serge, to but little avail so far as he was concerned, as he did not know a word of it. However, as she had taken the name of Olga, broken her English accent, and in other ways identified herself with the great country of Serge’s forbears, she rather liked to be able to sing an occasional folk-song from the Steppes in its original tongue. She felt that it put the finishing touches to her part of temperamental Slav.

  ‘I wonder they don’t send you to Russia. I hear they find it very difficult to get reliable information.’

  ‘Darling, it would be certain death.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You would be handed over to the grandchildren of Serge’s grandfather’s peasantry, wouldn’t you? Very unpleasant. But couldn’t you go disguised as a member of the proletariat in no silk stockings and drab clothes? I could give you lots of hints. You share a room with about seven other people and their bulldogs if they have any, and you have no pleasures of any kind. I really think, speaking Russian as you do, that you ought to volunteer.’

  ‘Far, far too dangerous. The Chief would never let me. I may of course have to go abroad later – to Egypt, Turkestan or Wazuristan perhaps, but Russia is entirely out of the question.’

  ‘I call it very cowardly of you,’ said Sophia, ‘your country should come first. Well, goodbye, I must be going,’ and she winked out rather innacurately A, B and C. ‘I’m sure the Chief would raise your screw if you knew a bit of Morse,’ she said, and got up to go, followed by Rudolph who quite shamelessly left Olga to pay for the drinks.

  ‘Think how rich she must be with all that spying,’ he said happily, and kissed Sophia a great deal in the taxi. ‘Darling, heavenly to see you. I’ve got a fortnight’s leave.’

  ‘What were you doing with Baby Bagg?’

  ‘Just met her in the Ritz.’

  ‘After you had telephoned to tell her to go there, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, darling, in point of fact, I do feel rather intrigued about Olga’s job. I have a sort of feeling that there may be more in that little woman than meets the eye, and I must say she’s remarkably secretive. Now if you were a beautiful female spy, my own precious poppet, we should all know all about it in two days. For one thing of course, you would never be able to resist telling funny stories about your Chief. But Olga is as close as an oyster. I must have another go at her before my leave comes to an end.’

  Sophia was very much nettled by the unfairness of all this. Had she told a single funny story about her Chief? Had she not been a counter-spy for a whole day without hinting a word of it to anybody? Of course, she had been about to take Rudolph into her confidence; now nothing would induce her to do so. She would pay him out for being so horrid to her. Because he must be broken of this new predilection for Olga; it was becoming a bore.

  ‘Yes, do,’ she said; ‘have another go at her. Have it now, won’t you – much more convenient for me actually because I want to dine with Heatherley.’

  ‘Heatherley? You don’t mean Egg? You don’t mean that fearful red-headed brute who told us what the President said? Darling Sophia – besides, you’re dining with me, you said you would. I haven’t seen you for weeks.’

  ‘Darling, I’m terribly sorry, but I haven’t seen Heth all day and there are masses of things I want to talk over with him.’

  Rudolph said no more. He stopped the cab, got out into the street, told the man to go on to Granby Gate, hailed another cab going in the opposite direction, jumped into it and disappeared.

  Sophia minded rather. She had been pleased to see Rudolph, and excited at the idea of spending an evening with him, more pleased and more excited even than she generally was when she had been separated from him for some time, but he must be taught a lesson. It was quite bad enough for him not to say that he was coming on leave, and to let her find him sitting at the Ritz with Olga. But to have him comparing her in a denigrating manner with that pseudo-Muscovite was altogether intolerable. Women are divided into two categories: those who can deal with the man they are in love with, and those who cannot. Sophia was one of those who can.

  When she arrived at her house she found a merry meeting of the Brotherhood was in full and joyous progress. Brothers and Sisters were overflowing from all the reception rooms, and the downstairs lavatory was in constant use. A large photograph of Brother Bones was propped up on the drawing-room piano with a bunch of lilies in front of it, for it was the Brother’s birthday. Sophia hurried into the lift, and going to the top floor she got the key of her bedroom from Elsie, who had instructions always to lock it on these occasions against the quiet-timers. Sophia had a very hot bath and changed
her clothes. Then she went to look for Heth. It was rather a long search, ending in the coal-hole where he was in earnest converse with one of the thin-haired young ladies. Being members of the Brotherhood they were, of course, not at all abashed at being found in such curious circumstances; they merely showed their gums.

  Sophia beckoned to Heatherley and whispered in his ear, ‘There will be dinner for two in my small sitting-room in about half-an-hour. I hope you will join me there.’

  Heatherley accepted at once. There was always, at these meetings, a large brotherly buffet-meal in the dining-room for which the food was always ordered by Florence, was cold, of the fork variety, non-alcoholic, and very dull. Sophia had an exquisite cook and a pretty taste in food herself, and Luke’s wine was not to be sniffed at.

  Exactly at the appointed time Heatherley tried the door of the small sitting-room. It was locked. Sophia knew all about the Brothers by now. They would come into her room, and brightly assuring her that she did not disturb them, begin an all-in wrestling match with their souls. She had told Florence that meetings could only take place at 98 Granby Gate, on condition that the Brothers were neither to use the lift nor be guided to force open any doors which they might find locked.

  Heatherley announced himself, upon which Sophia let him in. Dinner was waiting on a hot plate, and they helped themselves. Sophia thought he looked like Uriah Heap, and wished she had a more attractive counterspy to work with, somebody say, like the ruthless young German in The Thirty-Nine Steps; it was impossible to take much pleasure in the company of Heth. How fortunate she loved her work for its own sake (and that of Olga).

  With an alluring smile she gave him some soup.