Wigs on the Green

by Nancy Mitford

  After this the Rackenbridge brass band struck up the tune of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, to which the Social Unionists, standing at attention, sang their hymn.

  ‘Onward, Union Jackshirts

  Fight for England’s fame.

  Fight and die for England,

  Saving her from shame.

  When foreigners make grimaces,

  Stamp them in the mud,

  Jump upon their faces,

  Cover them with blood.

  Onward, Union Jackshirts

  Fight for England’s fame,

  Fight and die for England,

  Saving her from shame.

  ‘Onward, Union Jackshirts

  England shall win through.

  England shall rise greater,

  Thanks to Jackshirts true.

  Junket fronts shall quiver,

  We shall give them more

  Reasons to shiver

  Than they had before.

  Onward, etc.

  ‘Fight with shell and bullet,

  Fight with castor oil,

  Fight with pen and paper,

  Fight, Oh Jackshirts loyal.

  Fight the loathly Pacifist,

  Fight the junket breast,

  Make them feel the Jackshirt’s fist,

  Make them howl for rest.

  Onward, Union Jackshirts

  Foreigners you’ll whack.

  Fight and die for England

  And the Union Jack.’

  After this another unrehearsed incident took place. There was a moment’s pause while George the Third prepared to descend from the platform for his inspection of the Olde Englyshe Fayre. The Comrades, who had completely entered into the spirit of the thing, were crowding round him cheering themselves hoarse, when suddenly and most unexpectedly they were attacked from the rear by quantities of horrible-looking men dressed as the sansculottes of Revolutionary France and wearing yellow caps on their heads. ‘We want peace! we want peace!’ they cried, scattering white feathers in every direction.

  We will fight

  Red, White and Blue

  ’Cos we are yellow

  Through and through

  We’ll have a crack

  At Captain Jack

  Because we think

  His heart is black.

  ‘Kill Social Unionism!’ and they fell upon the defenceless Comrades with life preservers, knuckledusters, potatoes stuffed with razor blades, bicycle bells filled with shot, and other primitive, but effective, weapons. The Social Unionists, who were not only unarmed, but also sadly hampered by their full-bottomed coats, ill-fitting breeches and the wigs, which in many cases fell right over their eyes, impeding their vision, were at first utterly overcome by the enemy. Many were laid out, others, less fortunate, were carried away to a distant part of the estate where atrocities too horrible to name were perpetrated upon their persons. Mrs Lace was dragged to the lake and there was soundly ducked more than once by masked, but vaguely familiar assailants.

  Eugenia, meanwhile, had gone into the house to fetch a sunshade for her grandmother. On hearing the din of battle she rushed out again, to be confronted by an appalling scene of carnage. The Social Unionists, in small, scattered groups, were defending themselves bravely enough, but to no avail. They were completely disorganized, and it was clear that the Pacifists must win the day, unless something quite unforeseen should happen to turn the tide of war against them.

  It happened. Like a whirlwind, Eugenia Malmains dashed into the fray, seizing a Union Jack from off the platform she held it high above her head and with loud cries she rallied the Comrades to her. The Pacifists fell back for a second in amazement, never had they seen so large, so beautiful, or so fierce a woman. That second was their undoing. They returned ferociously enough to the charge, but from now onwards the fight began to go against them. The Social Unionists, all rallying to Eugenia, presented at last a united front. Led by her, they shouted their fighting cry: ‘We defend the Union Jack.’

  ‘We will whack

  And we will smack,

  And we will otherwise attack

  All traitors to the Union Jack.

  For we defend the Union Jack.’

  and charged again and again into the ranks of the enemy, which were gradually falling away before their determined onslaught. The cowardly Pacifists, armed to the teeth though they were, could stand up to the Jackshirt’s fists no longer. They began to retire in extreme confusion, which ended in an utter rout. They fled, leaving in possession of the Comrades a battlefield on which were scattered a quantity of white wigs, white feathers and wounded men.

  ‘How wonderfully realistic that was,’ said Lady Chalford, appreciatively. ‘One might almost believe that some of those poor fellows were actually hurt.’ She surveyed the scene through her lorgnettes, and addressed the Duke of Driburgh, who stood at her side. ‘Mr Aspect,’ she continued, ‘has evidently inherited all your talent for writing, my dear Driburgh – I have never forgotten the pretty Valentines you composed so charmingly in those days.’

  ‘Very kind of you, my dear,’ said the Duke. ‘I presume that what we have just witnessed is the Battle of Waterloo, with your dear little Eugenia in the part of Boadicea, such a clever notion.’

  The Social Unionists, in spite of their wounds (and hardly one had escaped injury) now went quite mad with excitement. They hoisted Eugenia upon their shoulders and carried her, with loud cheers, to the platform, from which point of vantage she made a stirring speech. She urged that all who had witnessed this cowardly attack upon the peaceful Social Unionists should join their party without more ado. ‘We are your only safeguard against Pacifism in its most brutal form,’ she cried; ‘do you want your streets to run with blood, your wives to be violated and your children burnt to death? No? Then join the Union Jack defenders here and now —’ She pointed to her tattered flag, saying that in time it would surely be one of the most honoured relics of the Movement. She told the Comrades that their scars were honourable scars, received on a great occasion and in defence of a great cause. Their names would go down to history, she said, and become famous; they would boast in after years to their children and their children’s children that they had been privileged to fight beneath the Union Jack in the Battle of Chalford Park.

  This speech was received with the utmost enthusiasm, not only by the Comrades themselves but by members of the public, many of whom now hastened to become recruited to the Social Unionist party, Eugenia herself pinning the little emblem to their bosoms. Such Pacifists as had fallen into their enemies’ hands were presently led away and treated to enormous doses of ‘Ex-Lax’, the ‘Delicious Chocolate Laxative’, which was the only substitute for castor oil to be found in Nanny’s medicine-chest.

  The victims of Pacifist atrocities now began to stagger back one by one. They told hair-raising tales of the treatment which they had received, and were hailed as martyrs and heroes by Eugenia, who wrote their names down in a small exercise book. When their wounds had been dressed, and the more serious cases had been put to bed in Lady Chalford’s spare rooms (her ladyship having by this time retired, fatigued by the day’s excitements to her own), Eugenia, at Jasper’s suggestion, led a contingent of Social Unionists to the cellar, and several cases of vintage champagne were carried on to the lawn.

  The Olde Englyshe Fayre from now on became more like an Olde Englyshe Orgy. An enormous bonfire was made, on which Karl Marx and Captain Chadlington (the local Conservative Member of Parliament) were burnt together in effigy amid fearful howls and cat-calls from the Comrades. ‘Down with the Pacifists! Down with the Communists! Down with non-Aryans! Down with the Junket-fronted National Government! – We defend the Union Jack, we will whack and we will smack and we will otherwise attack all traitors to the Union Jack —’

  Everybody danced with everybody else, some people even danced alone, certain sign of a good party, while the Rackenbridge brass band moaned out ‘Night and Day’, it’s latest number, for hours on end. The v
isitors from Peersmont became as drunk as the lords they were, and, each with a pretty girl on his arm, refused to budge when the curator said that it was time to go home. Lady Marjorie and Mr Wilkins disappeared together for a while; when they rejoined the throng of merry-makers it was to dance a jig and announce their engagement. The Comrades cheered and sang their Union Jackshirt songs until they could cheer and sing no more, and it was not before one o’clock in the morning that they finally packed themselves into their charabancs and drove away, hoarse but happy.

  Silence at last fell upon the park. Under a full moon Poppy and Jasper staggered hand in hand towards the Jolly Roger. In spite of their extreme exhaustion they still went on talking over the events of that sensational afternoon.

  ‘Did you adore the fight?’ asked Poppy; ‘I did. I dug my heel into a fallen Pacifist’s face – remind me to tell Eugenia that, by the way. It ought to give me a leg up in the Movement. And what were you up to? I never saw you.’

  ‘No,’ said Jasper, ‘because I was hiding underneath the platform all the time. I can’t bear being hurt.’

  ‘Darling Jasper, you never let one down for a moment, do you?’

  ‘Are you going to marry me?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t see how I can help it. It would seem a bit wasteful not to keep you about the place, considering that you are the only person I’ve ever met who makes me laugh all the time without stopping.’

  ‘Good,’ said Jasper, ‘we’ll sell the tiara then, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, darling!’

  ‘And go to Uruguay next week?’

  ‘No, darling. I shouldn’t fancy that – fuzzy wuzzies aren’t at all my dish!’

  18

  A large luncheon-table was prepared in the Iolanthe room at the Savoy. There were a great many glasses on it and a huge bouquet of orchids, while several champagne bottles in buckets of ice completed an atmosphere of extreme gaiety. The room next door was also thrown open and a cocktail-bar here awaited the assembling of the guests. All was now in readiness for the wedding luncheon-party of Mr Wilkins and Lady Marjorie Merrith, who were busy uttering nuptial vows in the presence of their nearest and dearest at the Caxton Hall, Westminster.

  The first guest strayed into Iolanthe and thence into the next room, where she refused a cocktail which was pressed upon her by several waiters, but fell with healthy appetite upon the salted almonds and potato crisps. It was Eugenia, who, having given T.P.O.F. the slip, had found her way to London by an early train, and from thence to the Union Jack House, where she had spent a blissful morning with Comrades of the London branch. Her eyes still sparkled from excitement at the memory of her reception. The Captain had himself granted her an interview, warmly thanked her for all the work she had done on behalf of the Movement and had finally, as a token of gratitude, plucked, like the pelican, his own little emblem from his own bosom and pinned it, still warm, upon hers. When she had left the great man, tears of emotion streaming from her eyes, the Comrades had clustered round her and had made her give her own account of the now epic Battle of Chalford Park. After this they had made much of her, fed her on sausage rolls and twopenny bars, given her a special cheer and salute, and had all promised to visit the Chalford Branch in the nearest of futures.

  As Eugenia was still wearing her usual costume of Union Jack shirt, old grey woollen skirt, belt complete with dagger, and bare legs and head, she cut a sufficiently incongruous figure in the sophisticated atmosphere of a large hotel. The waiters stared at her in astonishment and she returned their glances quite unabashed; she was lacking in the nervousness which many a young girl might have felt while spending her first day in London.

  Presently Mrs Lace came trailing in, wearing clothes reminiscent of the riding habit of a widowed queen-empress. She also had been unable to attend the marriage ceremony, having spent her morning in a frenzied rush round the shops. Eugenia had already seen her that day, they had come up from Rackenbridge by the same train, the Laces travelling first-class and Eugenia third.

  ‘Oh! how are you?’ said Mrs Lace. For the hundredth time she took in the details of Eugenia’s attire with a kind of disgusted satisfaction, disgust that one so rich should put her money to so little use, satisfaction that Eugenia would certainly never rival herself as the best-dressed woman in the Cotswolds. Eugenia, who could not understand the significance of her glances, thought that Anne-Marie was looking more grumpy than usual today. Presently, gathering up her velvet train, Anne-Marie sauntered to a looking-glass, where she rearranged her silver fox to its best advantage and pinned to it a couple of gardenias which she took out of a thick white paper bag. She looked at herself with her head on one side and her lips pursed as though she were about to whistle, after which she swayed back to the side of Eugenia, who was happily browsing in a basket of crystallized fruits.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Lace, in her foreign accent. In truth, she was not feeling quite happy about her black velvet, furs and feathers; the day being a particularly hot one in late September, she was beginning to wonder whether she was not rather unsuitably dressed for it. ‘Cold, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ said Eugenia, with her mouth full.

  ‘I always think these autumn days singularly deceptive, they look so warm, but one has to be very careful, le fond de l’air est cru.’

  ‘It’s perfectly boiling today,’ said Eugenia, scornfully. ‘I don’t know what those foreign words mean I’m afraid. Under the régime people will talk English or hold their tongues.’

  ‘My dear child, how ridiculous you are. Régime itself is a French word, you know.’

  ‘Oh! no, it’s not,’ said Eugenia, ‘it has become anglicized long ago by the Comrades.’

  Jasper and Noel now came in. Jasper flung his arms round Eugenia’s neck. ‘You simply can’t have any idea how pleased I am to see you, darling,’ he cried ‘I never thought you would make it.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Eugenia. ‘Luckily T.P.O.F. is ill in bed, so she will never know, unless that old yellow Pacifist of a Nanny tells her. I rode to the station on Vivian Jackson and had to leave him tethered there all day, the poor angel.’

  ‘Well, and what have you been up to since we left?’

  ‘Oh! nothing much, it’s been fairly dull down there (you heard we made a hundred and eighty-six pounds for the Movement, I suppose?) But today has been wonderful. I was able to keep a non-Aryan family from getting into my carriage at Oxford simply by showing them my little emblem and drawing my dagger at them and I can’t tell you what a morning I’ve had with the Comrades at the Union Jack House – Oh, boy!’

  ‘Come next door and let’s hear about it,’ said Jasper, mischievously, leaving Noel to a tête-à-tête with Mrs Lace.

  Noel was now wondering whether he had ever really been in love with her at all. Good manners, however, demanded that he should keep up the fiction, so he kissed her hand, gazed passionately into her eyes and murmured that he was happy to be with her again.

  ‘Moi aussi je suis contente,’ said Mrs Lace, with a mournful look. She felt that her black velvet, if rather sweaty in such weather, at least assisted her to present a highly romantic appearance. ‘How are things going with you, mon cher?’ She had been cheated out of her great renunciation scene at Chalford, perhaps she would be able to enact it here and now.

  ‘I am rather worried,’ said Noel, snatching at any opportunity to talk about himself as opposed to themselves. The others could not now be long in coming, until they did, the conversation must be kept on a safe level. He cursed Jasper for leaving them together, typical piece of spitefulness. ‘I am doubtful now whether I shall get that appointment in Vienna I told you of. My uncle, who has some influence there, is still trying hard to get it for me, and General von Pittshelm, an old friend of my parents, is pulling certain strings, I believe. All the same, it seems fairly hopeless – so much stands in the way.’

  On hearing this Mrs Lace felt thankful that things had gone no farther between herself and Noel. She had begun to
think during the calm, dull weeks which had succeeded the pageant that the penniless heir to a throne, which he was unlikely ever to ascend, would be a poor exchange for the solid comforts of the Lace home, although he might provide a sweet romance to while away a boring summer. It behoved her to be discreet.

  ‘You never came to say goodbye to me,’ she murmured, plaintively.

  ‘Darling, it wasn’t possible. If you only knew —’

  ‘I think I do. We must say goodbye here, then, I suppose. In public. It seems hard.’

  ‘But I shall come to Chalford again awfully soon, you know.’

  ‘It can never be the same. My husband – he knows something of our romance and suspects more. I have had a terrible time since you left.’

  ‘I say, not really? Is he – will he – I mean he hasn’t got anything on us, has he?’

  ‘My husband,’ said Mrs Lace, grandiloquently, ‘will forgive me everything. He has a noble character and moreover he loves me to distraction.’

  ‘Thank heaven!’ said Noel, ‘I mean – you know, darling, that I would love to carry you right away from Chalford for ever, but it isn’t possible in the circumstances. I am much too poor. Besides, I could never have taken you from your children; the thought of them would have come between us in the end. All the same, I shall love you for ever; you will always be the love of my life.’

  ‘And you,’ said Mrs Lace, ‘of mine.’

  She looked up at him with her sideways glance that she supposed to be so alluring, and thought, as she used to think when he first came to Chalford, that his was an unromantic appearance. ‘More like a stockbroker than a king,’ she thought.

  ‘If you should ever happen to be passing through Vienna,’ he was saying, ‘you must look me up, if I go, and we will do the night-clubs together if there are any, although I hear it is far from gay there now. A friend of mine who has just come back from there tells me that he is off to North Wales in search of amorous adventure – been reading Caradoc Evans, I suppose.