God Save the Queen!

by Dorothy Cannell

  “And I suppose young Vivian was only a couple of steps behind his uncle, and neither one of them had the consideration to close the door behind them.” Lady Gossinger blinked back a tear.

  “It was the boy—Boris, I think that was his name— he left the door ajar. Good manners are rarely to be found in young people today.” Cousin Sophie hesitated, then added in an obvious attempt at fanning the flames: “Flora did the same thing, if you remember, after she brought in the tea.”

  “And to think that stupid little nobody will be queening it here at Gossinger after Henry kicks the bucket. If that isn’t enough to make you spit! As my sister Edna would say.” Her Ladyship’s face turned an almost fluorescent purple. “Having a bit more class, I think I’ll settle for killing myself.”

  “But surely that would be a little premature! Bear in mind, dear, that Henry hasn’t changed his will yet. And in this uncertain world anything could happen. For instance, though one hesitates to mention it, Henry might pass away before he sees his solicitor. Admittedly it’s a remote possibility, but life can play some very funny tricks at times.” Sophie shook her head philosophically.

  “Henry’s as healthy as a horse.”

  “But he is laboring under a great deal of pressure.” Cousin Sophie tiptoed over to the sofa with the cup of stone-cold tea, most of which had slopped over into the saucer. “Drink this down, Mabel, and remember you are not alone. I am in your corner.”

  On this encouraging note the old lady went over to the door and, at the moment of closing it, saw Vivian Gossinger on the stairs. The young man was standing at such an angle that she could not be sure whether he was coming or going, but as far as she was concerned it made no difference.

  “Go away!” Flushed with power, she mouthed the words at him. “Your Aunt Mabel doesn’t want to see you. She has the greatest distaste for men at this moment.”

  “Whatever are you mumbling about?” demanded Lady Gossinger.

  “Nothing, dear. Just thinking about how best to help you.” Cousin Sophie tried to smooth out her face, but traces of triumph still showed around the edges of her mouth when she turned back into the room. Her eyes fixed for a moment on the oak cupboard by the fireplace where the bottle of sherry was kept in readiness for a visit from the vicar. A tiresome man, the vicar, with a nose like an old boot. But in all likelihood he would say that God had presented her with the opportunity for which Sophie had pined during her five-year visit to Gossinger Hall. At last she was needed. Sorely needed. And if she played her hand correctly, Mabel’s gratitude might cause an old lady to feel secure at last that she would not abruptly find herself out on the street with a shopping cart and a sudden desire to join the Salvation Army.

  Pictures filled Sophie’s head. Happy pictures, beginning with breakfast in bed and ending with having her pillows fluffed by hands eager to smooth out any and every crease that might mar a perfect night’s sleep for Mabel’s guardian angel. Unfortunately, these hopeful images were shattered when Lady Gossinger dropped her Royal Derby teacup and saucer with a fearsome clatter and burst into noisy sobs.

  “Oh, go away, Sophie, do!” Her Ladyship’s flailing hand found a damask serviette and she blew her nose three times—very hard. “Get out, I say. I honestly can’t bear to look at you.”

  “But why, Mabel?” The old lady felt a bubble burst deep inside her, and tears welled in her eyes. “What have I done? What in heaven’s name have I said?”

  “You were there! A witness to all my lower-class instincts running amuck! You heard me screaming at Henry like a bloody fishwife. And if that wasn’t enough, you had a ringside view of the bloody encore when Boris showed up. So now if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to try and pull myself together before I crawl back into the gutter where I belong.”

  “Better an honest fishwife,” Cousin Sophie dabbed at her tears with an arthritic knuckle before bending down with great dignity to pick up the broken pieces of china, “than a mealy-mouthed coward.”

  “What did you call me?” A gasp went down the wrong way and her Ladyship started to cough.

  “You heard me.” Cousin Sophie straightened and walked over to the wastepaper basket by the fireplace. “And I’m surprised at you, Mabel, for talking about giving up without even attempting to fight for your rights as Henry’s wife. Somehow, although I’ve never set eyes on her, I’m certain your sister Edna would have more backbone.”

  Lady Gossinger was stung to the quick. “But what in heaven’s name can I do?”

  “May I suggest, Mabel,” Cousin Sophie had brightened considerably at the success of her less than subtle ploy, “that you exercise your womanly wiles.”

  “What—throw myself into Henry’s arms and start blubbering all over his waistcoat?” Her Ladyship vented her contempt in a hollow laugh. “Those sort of dramatics might work if I were blond and beautiful with a face that looked as though God made it yesterday morning. For your information, Sophie, I look like a clown when I cry. Thanks all the same, but I think I’ll hold on to what little dignity I have left.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, dear. That was going to be my suggestion, Mabel: that you compose yourself before seeing Henry again. At which time you tell him you’re sorry you went off the deep end because you now wholeheartedly agree with his decision. In fact,” Cousin Sophie sat down in one of the judgment-seat chairs across from Lady Gossinger, “you think he’s an absolute saint for acting upon his conscience, and never have you loved him more dearly, or been prouder to be his wife, than at this moment in time.”

  “And what will that do?”

  “Henry will realize he married a treasure.”

  “And?” Lady Gossinger raised a derisive eyebrow.

  “With luck, he’ll start wondering if he isn’t behaving like an absolute cad. Especially, dear Mabel, if you suit action to words and turn up the heat.”

  “You’re talking about the radiators?”

  “No, dear.” Cousin Sophie glanced toward the door as if fearing someone might have his ear to the keyhole. “I’m talking, if you will excuse the vulgarity, about sex. Men are such babies when it comes to all that nonsense. Or so I understand from listening to some of the television chat shows. And I do not think it would hurt, and might well do the world of good, if you were to make a concerted effort, perhaps two or three times a week, until Henry got the point.”

  “Which is?” Her Ladyship had not felt this uncomfortable on her wedding night.

  “That he should leave Gossinger Hall to you, or at least to Vivian—which would amount to the same thing, because that young man has made it plain he would never want to live here. You know what I am suggesting: see-through nighties, bedroom eyes and all that sort of thing. Of course that may well seem an insurmountable task, especially for someone who is through the change of life....”

  “I am nothing of the sort!”

  “No, of course not.” Cousin Sophie struggled to rally from this monumental blunder. “What was I thinking? It is just that ... you are so very ... mature for your age.”

  “I’m sure you are trying to be helpful,” said Lady Gossinger without much sincerity, “but if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to be by myself so I can really enjoy being miserable.”

  “The wisest course of action, Mabel.” The old lady forced a quivering smile. “But do think about my suggestion. Men are so susceptible to a little cheesecake ... I think that is the term used by the married women of my acquaintance. Meanwhile, dear, I will try to make myself useful by going to see why Tipp has not been up to remove the tea things. Perhaps he overheard your upset with that awful boy and thought it best not to come in until you had recovered.”

  “Forget about Tipp! The last thing I need at this moment is that old geezer buggering about when I’m trying to pick up the pieces of my life!” Lady Gossinger knew she sounded common as muck, and she didn’t much care. “For all I friggin’ well know, Henry has left Tipp a manor house in Cornwall!”

  “You mustn�
��t worry about that, dear.” Cousin Sophie spoke in a depleted voice. “There isn’t any family property left besides Gossinger. Unless you count the Dower House.”

  “Oh, go away!” Her Ladyship was about to pick up another cushion and hurl it full force, when the door opened and closed, leaving her alone in the room. Blessed silence. At last she could enjoy her misery to the full. She stood at the window, a sturdy woman in sensible tweeds with tears plopping off the end of her nose.

  From the window, she could see the Dower House which Cousin Sophie had mentioned, separated from Gossinger Hall by the road and a market garden. A handsome Tudor dwelling, it had been built on the site of Lady Normina’s twelfth-century dream kitchen. But the Dower House wouldn’t provide a refuge for a dispossessed widow, because it was leased to the family who operated the garden and there was as little likelihood of getting them out as—Lady Gossinger gulped down a sob—as there was of Hutchins conveniently dropping dead before Henry signed his new will.

  What it comes down to, old girl, the former Mabel Bowser thought, is the age-old question: Are you a woman or a mouse? She could feel her spine stiffening. She was beginning to sound like Lady Gossinger again. No more sniveling. The time had come for action.

  She went over to the cupboard by the fireplace and removed a small object from behind the bottle of sherry. Tempted to shore herself up with a glass of liquid courage, she decided the last thing she needed was to picture the vicar lecturing her on the wages of sin. Best to do the dirty deed, if it was at all possible, today.

  On this uplifting note, Lady Gossinger left the tower room. She went down the shadowy stairs and entered the Great Hall without meeting a soul; but there was something present—a stirring beneath the silence that made her wonder for the first time if the old tales about Gossinger’s being haunted might perhaps be true. Or was it only her silly conscience that made her feel the tiniest bit uneasy? Oh, ballocks to that, decided her Ladyship as she headed down the narrow passage toward the tearoom and came face-to-face with the very person she was seeking.

  “Ah, there you are!” she boomed in a voice now fully restored to its earthquake dimensions. “I have a little job for you to do. Won’t take but a moment, and afterward you can sit down to a nice cup of tea and a cream bun.”

  * * * *

  At that precise moment, Mrs. Much the housekeeper was making tea in a pot whose insides she had steeped in bleach overnight. Setting the kettle back on the ancient cooker, she patted her permed hair and gave her apron strings a resolute tug, while giving the kitchen a scathing glance. This room wasn’t any more cheerful than the rest of Gossinger, having been built at the turn of the century with an emphasis on reminding the household staff that fallen arches went with the job.

  “If I don’t get away from this dreadful house I’ll end up throwing myself off the roof, and then there’ll be another ghost come to haunt Sir Henry and her Ladyship,” Mrs. Much said aloud. “And only three months ago I was thinking I’d landed the job of my life.”

  Mrs. Much was speaking to Mr. Tipp, who sat at the scrubbed wood table studying the small piece of paper he held in his skeletal hands. At sixty-five, Mr. Tipp was far from a robust-looking man. Indeed, one feared the least breeze might turn him into a set of wind chimes.

  “It’s not to be wondered at.” He folded the piece of paper into a postage-size square, and managed to sound as if he were listening to the housekeeper’s lamentations for the first time.

  “Let me put it this way, Mr. Tipp.” She set a chocolate biscuit in his saucer and settled her comfortably large person into the chair across from him. “There’s some people that have ambitions to be doctors or bank managers or the like, but when I was a little girl, all I dreamed about was growing up into a woman who cleaned other people’s houses. There’s nothing thrills me like scrubbing and polishing, unless it’s taking down an armload of curtains and putting them in the wash.”

  For a moment Mrs. Much’s face took on a glow reminiscent of a full moon in an unclouded sky. “Think on it,” she clasped her serviceable hands, “the boundless joy of scrubbing out a bath until it’s white as driven snow! No one, and that’s the gospel truth, Mr. Tipp, will ever know the happiness I get from bringing back the shine on a piece of lino so’s it looks better than new.”

  “I take your meaning, Mrs. Much.”

  “But the working conditions has to be right, if you understand me, Mr. Tipp. It’s not sufficient that I get to live at Gossinger Hall and make decent wages. I can’t find professional fulfillment when I’m told off for taking down the tapestries for a wash.”

  “I doubt no one could make themselves any clearer.” Mr. Tipp took a sip of tea, which tasted of bleach, but told himself manfully that it was an acquired taste and he would get to like it. He would have liked to ask for another chocolate biscuit but did not wish to appear greedy.

  “Mr. Hutchins carried on about those tapestries like I was a cold-blooded murderer.” Mrs. Much’s face darkened. “It quite ruined my afternoon, until I told myself, who needs this job, when all is said and done. I’ve no idea where he’s disappeared to all this time, but good riddance is what I say. Let him report me to Sir Henry and her Ladyship. And let them give me the push. It’s no skin off my nose. I’ve a cousin as thinks I could get on where she works, but I won’t say any more about that,” Mrs. Much crossed her fingers, “in case I jinx myself. What I don’t understand is why you stay on here, year after year, Mr. Tipp. It’s not like they’ve ever made a proper position for you now that there’s no horses in the stables.”

  “Haven’t been for thirty years, not since old Major had to be put down, but it doesn’t bother me none being the odd-job man. When I see something that needs doing I write it down, and sometimes I come up with quite a list.” Mr. Tipp picked up the folded piece of paper he’d been fiddling with before he started drinking his tea. He looked at it with an expression of pleased pride before tucking it in his jacket pocket. “I’m the last of a long line of Tipps that have worked at Gossinger Hall since no one quite remembers when. Which is more than can be said for Mr. Hutchins. Not that I mean any disrespect, I’m just saying that’s one difference between us, along with him being Sir Henry’s right-hand man.”

  Mr. Tipp looked decidedly anxious, and Mrs. Much hastened to put his mind at ease.

  “Trust me not to breathe a word. My late husband would tell you I’m loyal to a fault. Such a lovely man, snuffed out like a light in his prime when he fell asleep in the bath and drowned.” She dabbed at her eyes in respectful memory of the deceased. “It’s a shame, that’s what I call it, Mr. Tipp, you being the junior here, at your time of life. My pride wouldn’t stand for it—" Realizing this was hardly tactful, she added quickly, “but I suppose it would be hard for you to find another job so close to retirement. Where will you go when that time comes? Do you have any family,” Mrs. Much got up to pour him another cup of tea, “any relatives at all who would offer you a home?”

  “Not that I knows about.”

  “You poor man.” She handed him the sugar bowl by way of a consolation prize.

  “Sir Henry will see me all right.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on her Ladyship,” Mrs. Much said darkly.

  “She’s not the easiest to please,” Mr. Tipp conceded, “but she does love Gossinger Hall something fierce.”

  “Well, good luck to her!” Mrs. Much resettled herself at the table. “Don’t take offense, because it’s clear you have your loyalties, but I can’t pour my heart and soul into a place where there’s not one fitted carpet or a color television in sight and the plumbing dates back to the Dark Ages. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing when on my very first day Mr. Hutchins took me up one of those stone staircases and showed me that horrible pit toilet. I’ve never seen such a disgusting place in my life. And I couldn’t have been more thankful that it’s kept locked and I wasn’t to be put in charge of one of the keys and told to go in there and clean once a week.”

  Mr. Tipp tri
ed to look sympathetic, but as a man who had dreamed of mucking out the stables as his father and grandfather had done before him, he found himself somewhat at a loss for a response. So he wisely said nothing.

  “I’ll be glad to get out of this place.” Mrs. Much got to her feet again and with a heartfelt sigh removed Mr. Tipp’s teacup from his hands. “Flora’s a nice enough girl, but I wouldn’t say she’s company. Not much spark to her, but I’m not one to pull people to pieces. Maybe she’s not strong. She’s pale enough to be a ghost, which isn’t to be wondered at after growing up in this tomb of a house! Sometimes if I wake up in the middle of the night,” Mrs. Much gave a trembly laugh, intended to indicate she wasn’t a coward by nature, “I hear noises deep down inside the walls that sound like screams.”

  “There’s a lot of stories told about strange doings at Gossinger Hall over the centuries.” Mr. Tipp lowered his voice. “You’ll have heard tell about the Queen’s tea strainer that went missing. But did you know there’s some as say one of the maidservants was blamed, and punished, for taking it? Seems to me, considering there’s been one or other of us working here down through the years, that she was a Tipp like people say.” This confession was made with a curious hint of pride. “And it could be that it’s her screams you hear of a dark night, and her who put a curse on Gossinger Hall.”

  “There’s a curse on the windows all right.” Mrs. Much was looking out the one above the kitchen sink. “All those horrid little panes with so much lead on them it looks like cross-stitch. Give me a nice picture window and double-glazing any day. Mrs. Frome, the lady I worked for before coming here, had the loveliest big windows. It was that sort of house, if you can picture it, Mr. Tipp. Only five years old, with fitted cupboards everywhere you looked and all the pictures bought to match the curtains. They purchased every bit of furniture brand-new when they moved in, Mr. Frome insisted on it. And, as I told him when Mrs. Frome was taken away in the ambulance never to come home again, he could take comfort in knowing he’d nothing to regret. Don’t go reproaching yourself that you didn’t buy one of those self-cleaning cookers, I said when Mr. Frome cried on my shoulder like a baby. Those sort of gimmicky things take all the fun out of housework. And it was true. I’d loved every minute of scrubbing the racks so you’d never think a Yorkshire pudding had come out of that oven.”