Au Reservoir

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  ‘And what would that mean?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘It would mean that I would have to reply to this letter, apologising for the conduct of two of our members, agreeing with the directors’ recommendations, and suggesting a three-year suspension. Dear me, I suppose that might have to apply to attending the club as well. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘But that would be awful,’ Georgie said. ‘If everyone in Tilling is going to play at the club, then it’s unlikely people will carry on with their bridge teas, in which case the Mapp-Flints wouldn’t have anybody at all to play with.’

  Lucia gave one of her little noises, which this time seemed to signify agreement, regret and sympathy all in one.

  ‘That’s why I will suggest they adopt the second alternative,’ she said.

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘That they withdraw their application to join the club, in which case I can reply saying that they were outsiders playing as visitors, not a member of any affiliated club, and therefore outside the jurisdiction of any disciplinary proceedings.’

  ‘Well, that sounds a lot better,’ Georgie observed with relief. ‘Then they can just apply later to join the club when all the brouhaha has died down?’

  ‘After a suitable interval has elapsed,’ Lucia said judiciously. ‘The constitution does give the Chairman the right to reject membership applications without assigning any reason, so I suppose it would be for me to indicate to them when I thought enough water had flowed under the bridge, so to speak.’

  ‘And when would that be?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘Well,’ she replied rather coyly, ‘I rather thought three years would be about right, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, Lucia,’ he sighed. ‘Aren’t we all getting a bit too old for this?’

  ‘What do you mean, Georgie?’ she said frostily. ‘Surely you’re not losing your stomach for the fight?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s just that I was rather hoping that things might settle down a bit now that all the business with the fête is over, and that we might extend the olive branch, so to speak.’

  ‘Pish!’ Lucia riposted. ‘If you offer Elizabeth Mapp-Flint an olive branch, first she’ll hit you over the head with it and then she’ll claim that you stole it from her garden in the first place.’

  ‘I know,’ Georgie said ruefully, admitting defeat, ‘and probably also that it’s a Mapp family heirloom of incalculable value.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lucia agreed, ‘so let’s have no more of this defeatist talk, Georgie. We finally have that woman exactly where we want her, ready for the coup de grâce. She has behaved very badly, and in public too, and all that piled on top of the business with the fête and the coach means that everybody will completely support them effectively being ostracised.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think ostracised is the right word, is it?’ Georgie objected. ‘After all, people will still talk to them and invite them to dinner and everything, won’t they?’

  ‘Possibly, if they have the gall to come into town, that is. No, you mark my words, Georgie, total victory is in sight – and if you really want to see the last of Elizabeth’s scheming, then total victory is the only thing that will stop her.’

  ‘I suppose it’s like that conference at Casablanca, isn’t it?’ Georgie proffered. ‘When Roosevelt said we would only accept unconditional surrender.’

  ‘Mr Churchill was there too, Georgie,’ Lucia reminded him. ‘I’m sure unconditional surrender was all his idea in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, I expect it was,’ he concurred.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he added, finishing his lamb chop, ‘I meant to say that I don’t think you were quite correct with your “uno piccolo codettino” after the fête.’

  ‘Really, Georgie?’ she enquired coldly. ‘In which particular, pray?’

  ‘Well, in just about all of them actually. In the first place, coda is feminine, so surely it would be una piccola codetta.’

  ‘Masculine, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘What, and ending in an “a”? Feminine surely.’

  ‘One of the exceptions, I think you’ll find. I’m sure there’s a line in Dante somewhere which demonstrates it,’ she said rather vaguely. ‘I really must look it up in the morning.’

  ‘Then there’s the diminutive,’ Georgie pointed out. ‘If you say codetta, or codettino if you must, then you don’t need piccola or piccolo now, do you? That’s tautologous – you know, saying the same thing twice.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Georgie. I do know what tautologous means.’

  ‘Well, I’m just saying we should be careful,’ Georgie said in mollifying tones. ‘You know how we’ve sometimes been caught out in the past, and we have to remember that Mr Wyse speaks quite good Italian, as does Olga.’

  ‘Mr Wyse did not correct me, caro mio.’

  ‘No, but I saw him wince slightly,’ Georgie said, ‘and then look as though he wished he hadn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall ask his opinion on the matter the next time I see him,’ Lucia said archly. ‘I could feign ignorance.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t sit very well with our famed prowess in Italian, would it?’ Georgie pointed out. ‘Think what Mapp might make of that. Why, suppose she brought a fluent Italian speaker to one of your tea parties?’

  Lucia briefly considered the possibility and then smiled and shook her head decisively.

  ‘Non dispiace, Georgie. She’s not bright enough to think of anything like that.’

  The next morning Lucia rang Grebe and explained to Elizabeth Mapp-Flint the predicament in which she found herself as Chairman of the bridge club. Apologetically, she offered the two options which she saw as being available to the Mapp-Flints.

  Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint raised exactly the same juristic objections which Georgie had advanced, and equally unsurprisingly received the same responses. Sounds of barely concealed outrage then ensued.

  ‘You don’t have a parrot, do you, Elizabeth?’ Lucia enquired.

  A spluttering reply was construed by her as a negative.

  ‘I was just wondering where that sound came from,’ she observed innocently.

  ‘What sound?’ Mapp managed to utter.

  ‘A sort of squawking, very much like a parrot in fact. But then if you don’t have one, it can’t have been. Curious, though, I could have sworn it was a parrot.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Are you still there, dear?’ Lucia asked at length.

  Surprisingly, when Mapp’s reply came it was in a curiously calm voice.

  ‘Yes, thank you, dear.’

  ‘Well, what do you wish me to do, Elizabeth? I’m sure you appreciate that the matter is a delicate one. The Tilling Bridge Club is newly formed, and is a tender flower. We don’t want any whiff of scandal or controversy to nip it in the bud, as it might be, do we?’

  ‘The Tilling Bridge Club is not yet formed,’ Mapp said evenly.

  ‘Soon will be,’ Lucia replied, ‘and with retrospective effect. The constitution makes that clear.’

  ‘The club will not be formed,’ said Mapp with the authority of one who had spent quite as many years sitting on committees as had Lucia, ‘until the members meet and adopt the constitution. And you may find, dear worship, that some of those present might wish to propose some teeny weeny amendments.’

  ‘Really, Elizabeth? I don’t think so. Such as what, exactly?’

  ‘Such as the automatic adoption of a certain person as Chairman, dear. Some might feel that Mr Wyse, for example, might be a more appropriate candidate, particularly as you are so busy with other matters.’

  ‘Dear Mr Wyse,’ Lucia said dreamily.

  ‘And then of course there’s the Chairman’s powers to reject membership applications. Hardly very common, is it, dear one?’

  ‘Really, dear? Didn’t you have something similar in WITCH? Such a shame you had to resign, of course.’

  There was another interval in which heavy breathing could clearly be he
ard.

  ‘So, which is it to be?’ Lucia asked. ‘What am I to reply to these wretched people? It is unfortunate they took such a stern view of your conduct, Elizabeth. We’re going to have directors at our club sessions too, by the way.’

  ‘Such an unnecessary formality, Benjy and I thought. Just interrupting and spoiling people’s enjoyment. I should think again if I were you. I can’t see it being a popular innovation. Anyhow, I didn’t know anyone in Tilling was qualified.’

  ‘Not at the moment, no,’ Lucia said, ‘but Georgie and I have volunteered. We’re going away on a director’s course quite soon.’

  There was another pause as this news was digested.

  ‘Elizabeth dear,’ she said gently. ‘I really must press you for an answer.’

  ‘I think, dear, that we would rather wait for the inaugural meeting of the club,’ Mapp said smoothly. ‘Once that is over we will see who emerges as Chairman and exactly what their powers may be. I am sure you can see, worship, that it would be premature for us to commit ourselves before then, or indeed for you to reply. If you did, you might have to write again later saying that you did not have authority to say what you did, and that could all be very awkward for the club, couldn’t it? Such a tender flower should not risk being nipped in the bud by any sort of controversy.’

  ‘I’m surprised, Elizabeth,’ Lucia responded with one last throw of the dice, ‘that you should view the prospect of a three-year ban with such equanimity.’

  ‘Three years does sound rather extreme, don’t you think, dear? Three months sounds rather more realistic. We would of course appeal in any case. The directors were clearly hopelessly biased against us. I didn’t see them rebuking anyone else all day.’

  ‘On the contrary, dear,’ Lucia replied. ‘Three years sounds quite lenient to me. I think there’s a serious possibility it could be five, particularly if you start casting aspersions about the directors.’

  More heavy breathing and then again a curious calmness on Mapp’s part.

  ‘So sweet of you to have our best interests so very much at heart, but it sounds as though we must await events. By the way, we are looking forward to your tea party tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Lucia absently, ‘and you’re bringing your house guest aren’t you?’

  ‘Indeed we are. Such a charming young man. We were introduced to him through a mutual friend in London. He’s down here on a walking holiday studying birds.’

  ‘And what does he do, this charming young man?’ Lucia asked with what might almost have passed for genuine interest.

  ‘I’m really not sure,’ Mapp said vaguely. ‘I believe it’s something in the City. A bank or something. Well, until tomorrow then, worship. Au reservoir.’

  Chapter 25

  Saturday morning saw Lucia and Georgie out and about earlier than usual, and as they were returning from their tasks they encountered the Wyses just setting out on theirs.

  ‘Any news?’ asked Susan cheerfully, as the gentlemen raised their hats.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ Lucia replied. ‘I have just been to the library to put up a notice convening the inaugural meeting of the bridge club for Monday afternoon. Four o’clock in the church hall, by kind permission of the Padre.’

  ‘Delightful,’ Mr Wyse said with a little bow. ‘We shall of course attend, won’t we, Susan?’

  ‘I am doubly glad to hear that,’ Lucia said, ‘as I would be grateful for your advice and support on a rather delicate matter which has arisen regarding the Mapp-Flints’ behaviour at the tournament.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Susan said. ‘Did the directors report them?’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ Lucia responded with every appearance of sincere regret.

  ‘I am of course entirely at your disposal,’ Mr Wyse said, ‘if my advice can be of any value.’

  ‘Dear Mr Wyse,’ Lucia said, looking at him fondly, ‘grazie tante. Shall we say Mallards at eleven on Monday?’

  ‘It shall be so,’ he said with a bow. ‘And may I say how very much we are looking forward to your tea party this afternoon?’

  With this, they went their separate ways.

  The Mapp-Flints’ house guest turned out to be a very ordinary person indeed when he was presented on the Saturday afternoon. Lucia, who had some experience of such matters, found it hard to believe that he worked in a City bank, although of course he could always be a counter clerk. However, before she could probe matters further new arrivals called her away. It was only when everyone was seated and had their tea, and were paying the usual compliments as to the excellence of the cake, that proper conversation became possible.

  ‘So, Mr Chesworth,’ Lucia enquired warmly, ‘which bank do you work for?’

  ‘Bank?’ he echoed, looking startled.

  ‘Yes, you do work for a bank, I understand?’

  ‘Why no, Mrs Pillson,’ the young man explained, ‘I work at the British Museum. I thought Mrs Mapp-Flint had already told you that …?’

  He glanced uncertainly at she who bore that name.

  A sudden frisson of impending danger ran through Georgie’s frame, and he gazed at Lucia in concern. Surely she too must have guessed what might be coming? If so, none would have known it from her countenance, which continued to show a benevolent smile. As she turned her gaze upon Elizabeth she saw that she too was smiling, though perhaps not benevolently. Hers was more the exultant expression of a lioness, concealed in the undergrowth, who sees a particularly tasty wildebeest ambling towards her.

  In that moment suspicion hardened into certainty in Lucia’s breast.

  ‘And in which department do you work, pray?’ Lucia enquired. Georgie was proud to note that as she handed him some tea the cup was rock steady in the saucer with not the slightest evidence of a rattle. ‘Accounts, perhaps?’

  ‘Why no, madam,’ Mr Chesworth replied with a proud smile. ‘I am an assistant curator.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucia exclaimed with every appearance of delight. ‘Why, isn’t that fascinating?’

  She fixed Mapp with one of her most dazzling smiles.

  ‘Why, Elizabeth, dear,’ she marvelled, ‘how remiss of you not to mention that Mr Chesworth enjoyed such an exciting position.’

  ‘Thought it would be a nice surprise for you, dear,’ Elizabeth said, beaming with every appearance of sincerity. ‘I know how interested you are in antiquities. Naughty of me, I know.’

  She gave a gulping noise which sounded awfully like a sea lion swallowing a herring, but which in fact did service for a laugh, and was usually recognised by her acquaintances as such.

  By that innate instinct which allows refined company to sense impending social disaster without yet comprehending what, how or why, the background conversation faltered and died. All eyes turned to Lucia.

  ‘And what, Mr Chesworth, is your specialty, pray?’ Lucia continued, offering him a plate of biscuits. ‘Why, Egyptology, I’ll be bound. You remember, Georgie,’ she went on before any reply might reasonably be expected, ‘how much we enjoyed all those wonderful sarcophaguses the last time we went up to town. Or is it sarcophagi, I wonder? How dreadfully difficult these plurals can be.’

  ‘Sarcophagi, I expect,’ Georgie ventured, quick to assist Lucia in steering the conversation on to safer ground.

  ‘Dear Mr Wyse,’ Lucia said, ‘do put us out of our misery.’

  Mr Wyse was generally acknowledged as the fount of all wisdom, or at least that part of earthly wisdom which was available in Tilling, for did he not complete The Times crossword every morning?

  ‘“Sarcophagi” would have my vote,’ he pronounced gravely. ‘The word is derived from the Greek, I believe, and translates literally as “flesh-eating”.’

  There were involuntary exclamations of disgust from various quarters, particularly from Evie Bartlett, who was known to have a delicate stomach.

  ‘Goodness, how macabre,’ Lucia opined. ‘But then I always said that the Egyptians were positively obsessed with death. Isis and Osiris, you know �
�’

  ‘Not like the Romans, dear?’ Mapp interjected quickly.

  ‘The Romans?’ Lucia echoed.

  Georgie gave a little gasp of vexation as the conversation was pulled expertly back into the jaws of the waiting lioness.

  ‘Yes, dear, didn’t you excavate a Roman temple or something in your garden all those years ago? Why, don’t I remember the newspapers writing about your finds?’

  ‘Oh really?’ asked Mr Chesworth with a puzzled expression. ‘I wasn’t aware of that.’

  ‘Well,’ observed Georgie somewhat desperately, ‘if you’re an Egyptologist that’s not really surprising, is it?’

  ‘Oh, but I’m not,’ the threat in their midst explained. ‘On the contrary, Roman Britain is my specialist area. That’s exactly why I’m surprised not to have heard anything about it.’

  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint beamed beatifically.

  ‘Quelle surprise indeed,’ she commented. ‘Why, Lulu, I seem to remember you telling us that you had dug up positively yards and yards of Roman remains. Surely it was a temple of Apollo, wasn’t it? Just to think of all those years I spent living in Mallards and never suspected what was hidden beneath the garden.’

  Lucia clapped her hands and smiled gaily.

  ‘Cattiva Elizabeth,’ she replied. ‘Naughty of you to arouse Mr Chesworth’s interest so! You know very well that my finds amounted to hardly anything – just a few shards of pottery, that’s all. A temple of Apollo, indeed – the very idea! Why, it hardly made the pages of the Tilling Gazette, far less the national press.

  ‘No, I’m afraid you’ve been letting your imagination run away with you,’ she went on playfully. ‘A temple of Apollo, forsooth! Why, that would have been a find of international significance and poor little Tilling would have journalists crawling around it from all over the world.’

  As Mr Chesworth nodded his earnest agreement, she laughed merrily and turned to Diva to offer her another cup of tea, but Mapp was not to be so easily deflected.