by E. F. Benson
There was Foljambe singing in a high buzzing voice as she unpacked his luggage in his room upstairs, and though it was a rancid noise, how often had it filled him with the liveliest satisfaction, for Foljambe seldom sang, and when she did, it meant that she was delighted with her lot in life and was planning fresh efforts for his comfort. Now, no doubt, she was planning all sorts of pleasures for Cadman, and not thinking of him at all. Then there was Lucia: through his open window he could already hear the piano in the garden-room, and that showed a horrid callousness to his miserable plight. She didn’t care; she was rolling on like the moon or the car of Juggernaut. It was heartless of her to occupy herself with those gay tinkling tunes, but the fact was that she was odiously selfish, and cared about nothing but her own successes . . . He abstracted himself from those painful reflections for a moment and listened more attentively. It was clearly Mozart that she was practising, but the melody was new to him. ‘I bet,’ thought Georgie, ‘that this evening or tomorrow, she’ll ask me to read over a new Mozart, and it’ll be that very piece that she’s practising now.’
His bitterness welled up within him again, as that pleasing reflection faded from his mind, and almost involuntarily he began to revolve how he could pay her back for her indifference to him. A dark but brilliant thought (like a black pearl) occurred to him. What if he dismissed his own chauffeur, Dickie, at present in the employment of his tenant at Riseholme, and, by a prospect of a rise in wages, seduced Cadman from Lucia’s service, and took him and Foljambe back to Riseholme? He would put into practise the plan that Lucia herself had suggested, of establishing them in a cottage of their own, with a charwoman, so that Foljambe’s days should be his, and her nights Cadman’s. That would be a nasty one for Lucia, and the idea was feasible, for Cadman didn’t think much of Tilling, and might easily fall in with it. But hardly had this devilish device occurred to him than his better nature rose in revolt against it. It would serve Lucia right, it is true, but it was unworthy of him. ‘I should be descending to her level,’ thought Georgie very nobly, ‘if I did such a thing. Besides, how awful it would be if Cadman said no, and then told her that I had tempted him. She would despise me for doing it, as much as I despise her, and she would gloat over me for having failed. It won’t do. I must be more manly about it all somehow. I must be like Major Benjy and say “Damn the woman! Faugh!” and have a drink. But I feel sick at the idea of going back to Riseholme alone . . . I wish I had eyebrows like a paste-brush, and could say damn properly.’
With a view to being more manly he poured himself out a very small whisky and soda, and his eye fell on a few letters lying for him on the table, which must have come that morning. There was one with the Riseholme postmark, and the envelope was of that very bright blue which he always used. His own stationery evidently, of which he had left a supply, without charge, for the use of his tenant. He opened it, and behold there was dawn breaking on his dark life, for Colonel Cresswell wanted to know if he had any thoughts of selling his house. He was much taken by Riseholme, his sister had bought the Hurst, and he would like to be near her. Would Georgie therefore let him have a line about this as soon as possible, for there was another house, Mrs Quantock’s, about which he would enter into negotiations, if there was no chance of getting Georgie’s . . .
The revulsion of feeling was almost painful. Georgie had another whisky and soda at once, not because he was depressed, but because he was so happy. ‘But I mustn’t make a habit of it,’ he thought, as he seized his pen.
Georgie’s first impulse when he had written his letter to Colonel Cresswell was to fly round to Mallards with this wonderful news, but now he hesitated. Some hitch might arise, the price Colonel Cresswell proposed might not come up to his expectations, though — God knew — he would not dream of haggling over any reasonable offer. Lucia would rejoice at the chance of his staying in Tilling but she did not deserve to have such a treat of pleasurable expectation for the present. Besides, though he had been manly enough to reject with scorn the wiles of the devil who had suggested the seduction of Cadman, he thought he would tease her a little even if his dream came true. He had often told her that if he was rich enough he would have a flat in London, and now, if this sale of his house came off, he would pretend that he was not meaning to live in Tilling at all, but would live in town, and he would see how she would take that. It would be her turn to be hurt, and serve her right. So instead of interrupting the roulades of Mozart that were pouring from the window of the garden-room, he walked briskly down to the High Street to see how Tilling was taking the news that it would have Lucia always with it, if her purchase of Grebe had become public property. If not, he would have the pleasure of disseminating it.
There was a hint of seafaring about Georgie’s costume as befitted one who had lately spent so much time on the pier at Folkestone. He had a very nautical-looking cap, with a black shining brim, a dark-blue double-breasted coat, white trousers and smart canvas shoes: really he might have been supposed to have come up to Tilling in his yacht, and have landed to see the town . . . A piercing whistle from the other side of the street showed him that his appearance had at once attracted attention, and there was Irene planted with her easel in the middle of the pavement, and painting a row of flayed carcasses that hung in the butcher’s shop. Rembrandt had better look out . . .
‘Avast there, Georgie,’ she cried. ‘Home is the sailor, home from sea. Come and talk.’
This was rather more attention than Georgie had anticipated, but as Irene was quite capable of shouting nautical remarks after him if he pretended not to hear, he tripped across the street to her.
‘Have you seen Lucia, Commodore?’ she said. ‘And has she told you?’
‘About her buying Grebe?’ asked Georgie. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘That’s all right then. She told me not to mention it till she’d seen you. Mapp’s popping in and out of the shops, and I simply must be the first to tell her. Don’t cut in in front of me, will you? Oh, by the way, have you done any sketching at Folkestone?’
‘One or two,’ said Georgie. ‘Nothing very much.’
‘Nonsense. Do let me come and see them. I love your handling. Just cast your eye over this and tell me what’s wrong with — There she is. Hi! Mapp!’
Elizabeth, like Georgie, apparently thought it more prudent to answer that summons and avoid further public proclamation of her name, and came hurrying across the street.
‘Good morning, Irene mine,’ she said. ‘What a beautiful picture! All the poor skinned piggies in a row, or are they sheep? Back again, Mr Georgie? How we’ve missed you. And how do you think dear Lulu is looking after her illness?’
‘Mapp, there’s news for you,’ said Irene, remembering the luncheon-party yesterday. ‘You must guess: I shall tease you. It’s about your Lulu. Three guesses.’
‘Not a relapse, I hope?’ said Elizabeth brightly.
‘Quite wrong. Something much nicer. You’ll enjoy it tremendously.’
‘Another of those beautiful musical parties?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘Or has she skipped a hundred times before breakfast?’
‘No, much nicer,’ said Irene. ‘Heavenly for us all.’
A look of apprehension had come over Elizabeth’s face, as an awful idea occurred to her.
‘Dear one, give over teasing,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘She’s not going away at the end of the month,’ said Irene. ‘She’s bought Grebe.’
Blank dismay spread over Elizabeth’s face.
‘Oh, what a joy!’ she said. ‘Lovely news.’
She hurried off to Wasters, too much upset even to make Diva, who was coming out of Twistevant’s, a partner in her joy. Only this morning she had been consulting her calendar and observing that there were only fifteen days more before Tilling was quit of Lulu, and now at a moderate estimate there might be at least fifteen years of her. Then she found she could not bear the weight of her joy alone and sped back after Diva.
‘Diva dear, come in for a m
inute,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard something.’
Diva looked with concern at that lined and agitated face.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Nothing serious?’
‘Oh no, lovely news,’ she said with bitter sarcasm. ‘Tilling will rejoice. She’s not going away. She’s going to stop here for ever.’
There was no need to ask who ‘she’ was. For weeks Lucia had been ‘she’. If you meant Susan Wyse, or Diva or Irene, you said so. But ‘she’ was Lucia.
‘I suspected as much,’ said Diva. ‘I know she had an order to view Grebe.’
Elizabeth, in a spasm of exasperation, banged the door of Wasters so violently after she and Diva had entered, that the house shook and a note leaped from the wire letter-box on to the floor.
‘Steady on with my front door,’ said Diva, ‘or there’ll be some dilapidations to settle.’
Elizabeth took no notice of this petty remark, and picked up the note. The handwriting was unmistakable, for Lucia’s study of Homer had caused her (subconsciously or not) to adopt a modified form of Greek script, and she made her ‘a’ like alpha and her ‘e’ like epsilon. At the sight of it Elizabeth suffered a complete loss of self-control, she held the note on high as if exposing a relic to the gaze of pious worshippers, and made a low curtsey to it.
‘And this is from Her,’ she said. ‘Oh, how kind of Her Majesty to write to me in her own hand with all those ridiculous twiddles. Not content with speaking Italian quite perfectly, she must also write in Greek. I dare say she talks it beautifully too.’
‘Come, pull yourself together, Elizabeth,’ said Diva.
‘I am not aware that I am coming to bits, dear,’ said Elizabeth, opening the note with the very tips of her fingers, as if it had been written by someone infected with plague or at least influenza. ‘But let me see what Her Majesty says . . . “Dearest Liblib” . . . the impertinence of it! Or is it Riseholme humour?’
‘Well, you call her Lulu,’ said Diva. ‘Do get on.’
Elizabeth frowned with the difficulty of deciphering this crabbed handwriting.
‘“Now that I am quite free of infection,”’ she read — (Infection indeed. She never had flu at all)—’”of infection, I can receive my friends again, and hope so much you will lunch with me to-morrow. I hasten also to tell you of my change of plans, for I have so fallen in love with your delicious Tilling that I have bought a house here — (Stale news!) — and shall settle into it next month. An awful wrench, as you may imagine, to leave my dear Riseholme — (Then why wrench yourself?) — . . . and poor Georgie is in despair, but Tilling and all you dear people have wrapt yourselves round my heart. (Have we? The same to you!) — and it is no use my struggling to get free. I wonder therefore if you would consider letting me take your beautiful Mallards at the same rent for another month, while Grebe is being done up, and my furniture being installed? I should be so grateful if this is possible, otherwise I shall try to get Mallards Cottage when my Georgie — (My!) — goes back to Riseholme. Could you, do you think, let me know about this to-morrow, if, as I hope, you will send me un amabile ‘si’ — (What in the world is an amabile si?) — and come to lunch? Tanti saluti, Lucia.”’
‘I understand,’ said Diva. ‘It means “an amiable yes”, about going to lunch.’
‘Thank you, Diva. You are quite an Italian scholar too,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I call that a thoroughly heartless letter. And all of us, mark you, must serve her convenience. I can’t get back into Mallards, because She wants it, and even if I refused, She would be next door at Mallards Cottage. I’ve never been so long out of my own house before.’
Both ladies felt that it would be impossible to keep up any semblance of indignation that Lucia was wanting to take Mallards for another month, for it suited them both so marvellously well.
‘You are in luck,’ said Diva, ‘getting another month’s let at that price. So am I too, if you want to stop here, for Irene is certain to let me stay on at her house, because her cottage is next to Grebe and she’ll be in and out all day—’
‘Poor Irene seems to be under a sort of spell,’ said Elizabeth in parenthesis. ‘She can think about nothing except that woman. Her painting has fallen off terribly. Coarsened . . . Yes, dear, I think I will give the Queen of the Italian language an amabile si about Mallards. I don’t know if you would consider taking rather a smaller rent for November. Winter prices are always lower.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Diva. ‘You’re going to get the same as before for Mallards.’
‘That’s my affair, dear,’ said Elizabeth.
‘And this is mine,’ said Diva firmly. ‘And will you go to lunch with her to-morrow?’
Elizabeth, now comparatively calm, sank down in the window-seat, which commanded so good a view of the High Street.
‘I suppose I shall have to,’ she said. ‘One must be civil, whatever has happened. Oh, there’s Major Benjy. I wonder if he’s heard.’
She tapped at the window and threw it open. He came hurrying across the street and began to speak in a loud voice before she could get in a word.
‘That amusing guessing game of yours, Miss Elizabeth,’ he said, just like Irene. ‘About Mrs Lucas. I’ll give you three—’
‘One’s enough: we all know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Joyful news, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed, it is delightful to know that we are not going to lose one who — who has endeared herself to us all so much,’ said he very handsomely.
He stopped. His tone lacked sincerity; there seemed to be something in his mind which he left unsaid. Elizabeth gave him a piercing and confidential look.
‘Yes, Major Benjy?’ she suggested.
He glanced round like a conspirator to see there was no one eavesdropping.
‘Those parties, you know,’ he said. ‘Those entertainments which we’ve all enjoyed so much. Beautiful music. But Grebe’s a long way off on a wet winter night. Not just round the corner. Now if she was settling in Mallards—’
He saw at once what an appalling interpretation might be put on this, and went on in a great hurry.
‘You’ll have to come to our rescue, Miss Elizabeth,’ he said, dropping his voice so that even Diva could not hear. ‘When you’re back in your own house again, you’ll have to look after us all as you always used to. Charming woman, Mrs Lucas, and most hospitable, I’m sure, but in the winter, as I was saying, that long way out of Tilling, just to hear a bit of music, and have a tomato, if you see what I mean.’
‘Why, of course I see what you mean,’ murmured Elizabeth. ‘The dear thing, as you say, is so hospitable. Lovely music and tomatoes, but we must make a stand.’
‘Well, you can have too much of a good thing,’ said Major Benjy, ‘and for my part a little Mozart lasts me a long time, especially if it’s a long way on a wet night. Then I’m told there’s an idea of callisthenic classes, though no doubt they would be for ladies only—’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Our dear friend has got enough — shall we call it self-confidence? — to think herself capable of teaching anybody anything. If you aren’t careful, Major Benjy, you’ll find yourself in a skipping-match on the lawn at Grebe, before you know what you’re doing. You’ve been King Cophetua already, which I, for one, never thought to see.’
‘That was just once in a way,’ said he. ‘But when it comes to callisthenic classes—’
Diva, in an agony at not being able to hear what was going on, had crept up behind Elizabeth, and now crouched close to her as she stood leaning out of the window. At this moment, Lucia, having finished her piano-practice, came round the corner from Mallards into the High Street. Elizabeth hastily withdrew from the window and bumped into Diva.
‘So sorry: didn’t know you were there, dear,’ she said. ‘We must put our heads together another time, Major Benjy. Au reservoir.’
She closed the window.
‘Oh, do tell me what you’re going to put your heads together about,’ said Diva.
‘I only heard just the end.’
It was important to get allies: otherwise Elizabeth would have made a few well-chosen remarks about eavesdroppers.
‘It is sad to find that just when Lucia has settled never to leave us any more,’ she said, ‘that there should be so much feeling in Tilling about being told to do this and being made to listen to that. Major Benjy — I don’t know if you heard that part, dear — spoke very firmly, and I thought sensibly about it. The question really is if England is a free country or not, and whether we’re going to be trampled upon. We’ve been very happy in Tilling all these years, going our own way, and living in sweet harmony together, and I for one, and Major Benjy for another, don’t intend to put our necks under the yoke. I don’t know how you feel about it. Perhaps you like it, for after all you were Mary Queen of Scots just as much as Major Benjy was King Cophetua.’