Belchester Box Set

by Andrea Frazer

  Chapter Seven

  Reactions and Counter-Reactions

  Through letterboxes all over the county were dropping thick white envelopes, containing social dynamite. The postman was delivering the invitations that Lady Amanda had written and caused to be posted the day before.

  In the Heyhoe-Caramac residence, it was the housekeeper who delivered the mail to Colonel Henry and Mrs Hilda, when breakfast had been cleared away. Both master and mistress were still sitting at the dining table, enthralled in items in their separate newspapers, when the post was slapped down on the table in front of the colonel.

  Without comment about the slapdash way in which their mail had been delivered, as this had become the norm over the last year or so, he picked up the pile of envelopes and went through them, commenting on each one, and making a pile for himself and a separate pile for his wife.

  ‘Christmas card, Christmas card, Christmas card, letter from Letitia,’ he began, slapping four envelopes in a pile for his wife’s perusal. ‘Bill – damn and blast it! Has that tailor no patience? Another bill – damned wine merchant, this time, I suppose. Why he couldn’t have waited until the New Year I shall never know.’ That was two in his pile, as he continued, ‘Readers’ Digest – no doubt we’re in a draw to win £100,000.’ This envelope he tossed towards the fireplace, to be consumed by the hungry flames.

  ‘Bank statement – that’s mine. Christmas card, Christmas card, Christmas card – all for you, I presume, my dear. Hello! What’s this?’ he concluded, holding up the velvety envelope in which their invitation from Lady Amanda was enclosed. ‘Don’t recognise the handwriting, so we’ll both take a look at that. Three more Christmas cards, and that’s it for today. Shall we have a look inside our mystery envelope first, Fluffy?’

  ‘Please, Bonkers. I’m dying to know what it is. Maybe one of our friends is having a New Year’s Ball, and we’re to be invited,’ gushed his wife, always one to live in hope.

  Colonel Henry – aka Bonkers – used his thick thumb as a rather inefficient letter-opener, and pulled out the stiff oblong of card from within its folds. His wife Hilda – aka Fluffy – looked on with the face of someone who always sees their glass as half-full rather than half-empty, and chided him to hurry up, as his eyes widened, his nostrils flared, and his mouth fell open. ‘Well, what is it, Bonkers? Come on: hurry up and stop teasing me. It’s an invitation, isn’t it? From whom? To what? When?’

  ‘Damn and blast the woman!’ exclaimed her husband, holding the oblong of cream card at arm’s length, the better to focus on it. ‘Trust her to make us an invitation we couldn’t refuse; although we could fake illness, or even death, if we wanted to.’

  ‘What are you babbling about, Bonkers? What woman? Invitation to what? Why can’t we refuse? Why should we need to fake illness or death?’ This morning was proving to be full of unanswered questions for poor old Fluffy Heyhoe-Caramac, and she could feel her kipper turning sour in her stomach with the upset of it all.

  ‘It’s that ghastly Golightly female – dreadful woman …’

  ‘I rather like her,’ interrupted his wife, only to find herself uncharacteristically slapped down for her comment.

  ‘Shut up, woman, and listen to this.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so rude about it. Whatever it is, it’s not my fault.’

  ‘Sorry, Fluffy. Just got my dander up, that’s all. She wants us to go to that fearful fake castle of hers on Boxing Day?’

  ‘What for? What use could we be to her on Boxing Day?’

  ‘There’s some blether here about her opening the house for guided tours – stuff and nonsense, if you ask me – and she wants to do a trial run with some of her friends – ha ha! Good one, that! – with afternoon tea thrown in, to see if: a) we would give her some feedback on the quality of the tour and food, and: b) to see if we would recommend it to any of our friends – people of the right background who wouldn’t pinch the silver or spill things on the furnishings.’

  ‘Does she actually say that?’ asked Fluffy, now fascinated with what she was being told. ‘In those exact words?’

  ‘No, silly, she just implies it. I’m perfectly able to read between the lines, and if there’s a sub-text to anything, you know I’ll find it. She seems to be attempting to break into the lucrative tourist market, using us as guinea-pigs and free advertising.’

  ‘Do we have to pay for the tour and the tea?’ asked Fluffy in a more practical vein than her husband.

  ‘No: it’s to be free for trial, to a few select friends.’

  ‘Then we’ll go,’ stated Fluffy, decisively. ‘You know how annoyed you always get on Boxing Day, when all the poor relations and local scroungers show up, hoping to be shown a bit of seasonal largesse. Then you get a terrible gastric attack because you’re so infuriated, and I hardly see you again till New Year.

  ‘This year we’ll be out when they arrive, and they can stay on the doorstep for as much of the day as they care to. We shall be elsewhere, getting a free feed for once, and your digestive system will, no doubt, purr like a cat in consequence. So, let’s have no more of this looking a gift horse in the mouth, and accept with a good grace.’

  ‘Do you know, you’re a genius, Fluffy? You’re absolutely right! Maybe Popeye and Stinky will be there too. It could prove to be a very enjoyable afternoon, being shown behind closed doors, then being waited on and fed like royalty. I’m going to write and accept this very minute. Trust you to find a completely different way of looking at things.’

  ‘That’s because I always look on the bright side, Bonkers, unlike you, who would probably have found fault with the Garden of Eden,’ she informed him, only for him to score an unexpected point by adding,

  ‘Never did like apples. Now, that would have made a very interesting story.’

  She aced his serve, but only in her head by thinking that he only didn’t like the woman because she was a better shot than him, and his pride was wounded more often than the game, when he was shooting.

  At The Manor, Sir Jolyon ffolliat DeWinter – aka Blimp – sniffed suspiciously at the thick expensive envelope that had arrived with that morning’s post, wrinkled his nose, and handed the missive to his wife Lady Felicity, with a sound that may only be represented in the written form as ‘Hrmph!’

  ‘What’s that you’re passing to me?’ asked Lady Felicity – aka Fifi – suspiciously. Anything not addressed solely to her, that her husband passed over for her to deal with, usually spelled trouble, and the dark side of her curiosity was instantly aroused. ‘What horrible nest of vipers are you handing over to me now?’ she asked, taking the offered piece of correspondence, and working at it with her marmalade-smeared knife, in order to set loose the snakes.

  ‘Whatever it is, I’m neither giving nor donating anything, taking part, buying anything, or getting involved in any way,’ replied her husband, leaving the whole thing to his wife to deal with.

  ‘Oh!’ Fifi exclaimed in surprise. ‘It’s an invitation. Now, let me just look at the details before I tell you about it.’

  ‘I’m not going to any auctions or fund-raising dinners,’ stated her husband, his figure swelling with indignation at the very thought, and explaining why, at an early age, he had been nicknamed ‘Blimp’. ‘I don’t want to sponsor anyone or anything, nor do I wish to attend any exhibitions of new and exciting artists, whose work will be a splendid investment for the future. I’m fed up with being rooked and preyed on, and that’s all anyone ever wants these days: to dip their hand into my wallet, and leave it a little thinner than it was before they came along.’

  ‘You’ll be well-pleased to find out that it’s to something that is absolutely scot free, then. It won’t cost you a penny, we’ll get a little look behind the scenes at a well-known local residence, and fed, into the bargain.’

  ‘I say, Fifi. That sounds more like it. Go on.’

  ‘It’s from Lady Amanda Golightly, and invites us to Belchester Towers for a free tour of certain quarters of the
property, with a slap-up afternoon tea thrown in. If we’re willing to stay behind and give her some feedback on the experience, and maybe dig up a few friends of the right calibre to pay to do the tour in the spring, we can stay to cocktails as well. There! What do you think of that?’

  ‘When is it?’ asked her husband, his face beginning to clear like a grey day after rain, his smile representing the sun, which was definitely coming out from behind one of the last clouds.

  ‘Boxing Day,’ replied his wife, noting his change of mood. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think that’s rather splendid!’ replied her husband. ‘I’ve always hated the twenty-sixth – no character whatsoever, and everyone making do with left-overs from the day before and pretending it’s all a jolly jape to be eating food that should have been fed to the pigs before something completely original had been cooked instead. The hunt used to be the only highlight of a rather grim day, and that’s gone for ever now, more’s the pity.’

  ‘That’s a ‘yes’ then, is it?’ Blimp never said one word when ten would do the job just as well.

  ‘It’s a splendid idea, and I should love to have a look round that old place. I haven’t been there since we were courting. Do you remember that fake priest hole that the original Golightly had constructed when the building was first going up?’

  ‘Yes, to the first question, and how on earth could you remember when the place was first built? You’d have to be over two hundred years old to be able to do that.’

  ‘Family story. Passed down. But, I say, it was rather fun in that old priest hole, wasn’t it?’

  Fifi blushed, and turned her attention to her other mail. She didn’t feel that the breakfast table was a fitting place to remember the follies and indiscretions of youth. ‘I’ll reply in the affirmative then, shall I?’ she asked, opening another envelope which obviously contained a Christmas greeting from one of their friends.

  ‘Definitely! Tally-ho! and all that. Maybe we can raise the ghost of a memory, if the tour visits a certain little cell.’

  At The White House, Belchester, a rather more modest residence than the two that had already received their summons, Madeleine Mapperley-Minto usually dealt with the mail, as its contents often had the effect of upsetting her husband to the extent that he had to wander off in search of a little tot of something to soothe his nerves.

  She had put this practice into place after one particularly bad week when nothing but bills had arrived, Monty’s little tot had turned into a bit of a binge, and she had taken refuge in several bottles of rather bad white wine, not because they usually drank the bad stuff, but because she knew that the way she would throw it down her throat, taste would be the last of her considerations of its quality.

  She was, not unnaturally, a little wary, as she knocked discreetly on the door of his study, to apprise him of the arrival of an invitation. ‘There’s something I need to speak to you about, Monty,’ she announced in a firm voice as she entered the room holding the invitation card in her hand.

  Monty’s eyes fixed on it as if it were a cobra, risen and ready to strike, and she could see him swallow as he started to salivate at the thought of something that annoyed him and sent him into a rage, with the inevitable following administration of a few pegs, to calm his nerves and restore his good humour.

  ‘Now, don’t get yourself into a state. Just listen to what I have to say before you even think of going off to empty the decanters. This is a lovely invitation, and I’m sure it will put you in a good mood just hearing about it,’ said Maddie, diplomatically and firmly.

  ‘Lady Amanda Golightly has invited us to a rather unusual event which is to take place on Boxing Day and, as it mentions cocktails at the end, I thought you might be tempted to attend.’

  ‘That’s a good start. What’s she up to?’

  ‘She wants to consult a group of friends – from the right circles, of course – to try out an idea she has, of giving guided tours of certain parts of her residence. There will be afternoon tea afterwards and, for those who don’t mind, as I said, staying on to give feedback and, perhaps, recommend her new enterprise to ‘suitable’ friends, there will be cocktails served.’

  ‘What, no wine with the afternoon rations?’ asked her husband, rather churlishly, thought Maddie.

  ‘You know very well that you’ll take your hip flask, no matter what, and you also know that I know that you hate Christmas. At least this would get us out of the house, and she’s bound to have invited other people that we know, so I think it could turn out to be rather a jolly ‘do’.’

  ‘OK, then.’

  ‘What, no argument? No need for me to plead with you?’

  ‘No! I’ve heard that she’s hooked up with old Chummy – you remember Hugo Cholmondley-Crichton-Crump, don’t you?’

  ‘I could hardly forget him, with a name like that, could I?’ replied Maddie, finding herself unexpectedly smiling. She had thought she faced a much harder task than this had proved to be.

  ‘Fancy a chin-wag with old Chummy. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s. Thoroughly good chap!’

  ‘That’s settled then. I’ll drop Lady Amanda a note of acceptance,’ said Maddie, hardly believing her luck.

  ‘Splendid!’ commented her husband, and returned his attention to the Financial Times without a hint of going off in search of alcoholic stimuli.

  Captain Leslie (Popeye) Barrington-Blyss of Journey’s End, Belchester, would never leave an important task like opening the mail to his meek but solidly built wife, Lesley, whom everyone who knew her well enough addressed affectionately as ‘Porky’.

  Their long-term nicknames were easily explained by stating that Capt Leslie (he still insisted on his rank being used) had been careless enough to lose an eye and wore, as a consequence, a black eye-patch. Being the sort of man that he was, he wasn’t beyond popping out his false eye to frighten both servants and children alike for his own crass amusement. As for Porky, she had been a well-built child who had never lost her puppy fat, later adding the extra weight she had gained by having two children quite late in life, and was now as round and bouncy as a rubber ball.

  In the mail this morning, Capt Leslie had received an invitation to Lady Amanda’s ‘Belchester Towers Tours (with afternoon tea provided)’ trial run, and had seized on this as a superb opportunity for him to do a little snooping. He was writing a book – ‘County Characters – Unmasked’ was its working title – and this would give him carte blanche, not only to poke around a bit in a house he had barely seen for years, but to eavesdrop on the other guests, who would probably be known to him, and thus provide grist for his literary mill.

  Without consulting his wife, he penned a reply in the very worst purple prose, and walked down to the post box to send it, before Lesley could offer her opinion, and maybe try to scupper the idea of going at all.

  On his return, he threw the information casually into a conversation they were having about Christmas arrangements in general, and waited for her reaction with bated breath.

  To his surprise, she seemed utterly enchanted at the idea. ‘What a lovely idea! It’s about time a few more people got a look at that intriguing house, and you know how boring I find the twenty-sixth. I shall, of course, have to have a new frock though – I’ve absolutely nothing to wear.’

  ‘That’s because you keep growing out of everything in your wardrobe,’ said her husband spitefully, but he said it sotto voce, so that she shouldn’t hear him and cause a scene. Goodness me, the tent-makers were going to be busy between now and Christmas Day! was his last unkind thought on the matter, before he moved the conversation on to an inquisition on why the house-keeping accounts seemed to be so high over the last month, wanting every last penny accounted for to his satisfaction. This was one of his favourite pastimes, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly for the next hour and a half.

  At Squire’s Court, Lady Margaret (Daisy) Fotherington-Flint came rushing out of her dressing room in her lacy dressing-gown, hooting like a siren
and making little squeaking noises of happiness and excitement. She headed straight for her husband, Sir Montacute (Cutie)’s dressing room, almost skipping at the pleasant news she had to impart.

  Without knocking, she sailed into the room, catching Sir Montacute fighting with his socks, in an effort to be ready for breakfast on time. Looking at him wrestling to catch his feet and capture them in sober black cashmere, she thought how fitting his nickname had been all his life. From photographs, she knew he had been a pretty baby who had grown into a beautiful child, and from this state of development, into a handsome man, as he still was in his later years, and she felt a thrill of pride that she had captured him and that he was still hers.

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing, bursting in on me like that, without any warning whatsoever?’ he asked, a little grumpily. A man should be allowed to dress in privacy, and not be interrupted when he was in the puffing and blowing acrobatic mode that this pastime now represented, now that he was not in his first, or even second, flush of youth. Dressing had become an undignified occupation that should not be viewed by anyone, least of all his wife, for whom the perfection of his daily turnout should not be marred by the exertions needed to achieve that state every day.

  ‘Oh, Cutie, don’t be cross with me. I have such exciting news. We’ve had an invitation to something that sounds fun, fun, fun!’ An unbiased observer may have, at this point, wondered how, if this was how Daisy normally behaved, her handsome husband had put up with this sort of girlish behaviour for so many years.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked her husband, now attempting to put his feet into his shoes, and having quite a time of it with his aim. ‘I hope it’s not another blasted charity ball. I’m not made of money, you know, and times are hard.’

  ‘It’s from Lady Amanda, and it won’t cost you a penny, Cutie, my darling,’ she cooed back at him, not at all ruffled by his grumpy responses. She had learnt to ignore them years ago, and they hardly registered at all on her consciousness now.