by Tom Holt
Lucia’s remarkable speech (no one doubted for a moment that it was a speech—and they were quite correct) had caused a stir the like of which Tilling, that place of excitements, had not seen for many a year. Someone even suggested ringing the church bells to celebrate the armistice, but that was considered inadvisable since they had not heard Elizabeth’s views on the matter.
It was coming on to rain and since Diva had closed down her tea-rooms until the summer season, there was no public place that was sheltered from the rain where prolonged discussion could take place. Yet public discussion there must be; so everyone went back to Diva’s house and she was told off to telephone Mr. Georgie.
‘Is Lucia listening?’ she said.
‘No,’ said he, ‘she’s in the garden-room working on—something or other.’ He did not know if he was meant to tell everyone about the Tapestry yet.
‘Then make some excuse and come round to Wasters at once. We’re all dying to know what Lucia is up to.’
Georgie rang off and went to find Lucia. As it happened, she had come back into the house to pick up a book and had heard the telephone ring. Therefore when Georgie said that he had forgotten something and was just popping out for a moment, she deduced at once what the telephone call had been about and decided to tease him before letting him go. Besides, she thought, they can wait for a minute or so. It will increase the suspense.
‘What have you forgotten?’ she enquired sweetly.
‘Sealing-wax,’ he said quickly.
‘But I have some in my desk, caro. No need to go out in the rain.’
‘But it’s not the right sort,’ he said, desperately. ‘It’s red and I wanted green.’
‘Green sealing-wax! Fancy! Off you go then. And should you happen to bump into any of our friends, you might just drop the tiniest of hints that we have a treat in store for them worth twenty motor-cars. And do buy me some green sealing-wax. It does sound rather delightful.’
It was therefore as a holder of the Mayoral warrant that Georgie went forth to Wasters, hatless and running despite the risk to his toupée in the high wind. ‘Now, shall I tell them all about it, or shall I tease them too? And where on earth am I going to find green sealing-wax? Infuriating woman!’
There could be only one word to express Tilling’s reaction to Georgie’s narrative. It fell to Evie Bartlett to say it.
‘No!’ she said. ‘How exciting! But why? It’s most unlike Lucia.’
Georgie felt he ought to rebuff what was, on balance, a slur on Lucia’s name. But he could not in all honesty do so; and besides, the remark could just as well be interpreted as a tribute to her vitality and indomitable spirit, so he let it pass.
‘She breaketh the bow,’ said the Padre, who was a man of peace, ‘and knappeth the spear in sunder, and burneth the chariots in the fire.’
Talk of chariots returned the conversation to the subject of the motor-car.
‘So she’ll let Elizabeth keep her motor?’ demanded Evie. ‘My goodness, how disappointing! I was looking forward to there being all sorts of excitements.’
‘So was I,’ admitted Georgie, ‘but there will be plenty of excitement to look forward to soon, and all in a good cause, too. Is that the time? I must be going.’
This clumsy attempt at suspense-brewing deceived no one, for he made no effort to move. He had expected a barrage of breathless enquiries, but none came. Finally, Mr. Wyse, whose acute social sense detected some embarrassment in the silence, took it upon himself to speak.
‘May one enquire as to the nature of this excitement?’ he asked. ‘I trust I am not proving ill-mannered in asking you this in so blunt a fashion, but I believe that you did mention that this undisclosed event would serve the common good and I am sure that we are all anxious to assist the Mayor in any of that most excellent lady’s worthy projects.’
‘It’s probably just the old scheme to put up those dratted plaques everywhere,’ said Diva, ‘saying where the fire started in fifteen-whatever-it-was and this was the site of the Anglo-Saxon fish market. And since we’ve all agreed that we don’t want the wretched things on our houses—’
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Georgie hurriedly, ‘although it is something to do with local history in a way. Shall I give you a clue? No, I’d better not, for it is a sort of Government secret and I wouldn’t want to end up in prison.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Irene coldly, for she was most upset to hear that Mallards was to be at peace with Grebe. ‘You’d have no end of fun embroidering the mailbags.’
‘Oot wi’it, mon,’ boomed the Padre. ‘Ye can trust our discretion.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Georgie, rather nettled, ‘but only a little clue, and you must work it out for yourselves. Just two words to help you—“the Normans”. And now I really must be going, for I have to buy some sealing-wax for Lucia. Goodbye.’
By some remarkable chance, there was green sealing-wax to be had and he bought three sticks, one for himself and two for Lucia—‘Not that she deserves it, persecuting me like that. She can use it for official letters and make them look important. Oh dear, it wasn’t a terribly good clue. I hope they won’t be misled.’
For a while then, motorism was unchecked in Tilling. Yet the knowledge that conflict was not likely to result from it between the two great powers tended to diminish interest, and whatever interest there was likely to be seemed destined to be in such disasters as might befall Elizabeth as she pursued the science of motor-driving. Further admiration seemed unlikely. Some saw in this (or thought they saw) Lucia’s foresightedness and strategic cunning. She had, they argued, foreseen that Elizabeth could only harm her kudos by continuing her stunt, and so permitted her to continue—in fact encouraged her. One of the chief proponents of this argument was Elizabeth herself and although she said as much only to Major Benjy, the view somehow reached a wider audience. On one thing all were agreed, however: Lucia had scored a notable victory but life was far less interesting as a result. On the fundamental question of motorism itself, only the Padre and Irene continued to discuss the matter, and, since they were agreed, there was little scope for further expansion of the theme. The Padre did make one last effort; he preached a fiery sermon in fluent Scotch on the text ‘On thy belly shalt thou crawl’, developing the theme that God had provided us with feet to walk upon and that any form of locomotion in which the feet did not touch earth (or move pedals, for the Padre rode a bicycle) was in effect a contempt for the Creator and an attempt to improve on His work. In order not to offend both Lucia and the Wyses, however, he was compelled to dilute his finest passages with gentle speech, with the result that most of his parishioners took the sermon to be about a proposed road-widening scheme down by the Harbour.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, was not finding the skill of motorism as easy to master as she had at first expected. What she needed, she decided, was practice and this must be obtained as far from home as possible. With this in mind, she raised the subject with her husband as they drove back from town one day.
‘I think we might manage a holiday this year,’ she shrieked over the shrill whine of the engine.
‘For God’s sake, engage third gear!’ replied Major Benjy, helpfully.
‘I am in third gear,’ said Elizabeth and by the time she had finished making it the statement was true enough. ‘I thought we might motor down along the coast to Devonshire. Dawlish is recommended at this time of—’
Benjy had seized the wheel briefly and a dog had thereby been spared destruction. ‘I don’t think you’re quite ready for a long journey yet, old girl,’ he said, returning the wheel to her hands. ‘A bit more practice might be in order before you get too ambitious.’
‘Nonsense, Benjy, I’ve quite got the hang of the thing. But a nice long drive in the country wouldn’t hurt, I grant you, where the roads are empty and we’re away from the prying eyes and mocking tongues of our so-called friends.’
‘You didn’t object to eyes and tongues when you started,’ said her husband. ‘Quite the r
everse.’
‘How hurtful you are sometimes, Benjy. You make it sound as if I welcomed their interest. You know very well that I hate to be the centre of attention—unlike some I could mention.’
They had returned to Grebe, and the motor, with an unbattered edge, was parked up for the day. Major Benjy jumped down, rather unsteadily, and handed his wife down from the vehicle.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I feel like a change of surroundings. It will be pleasant to leave Tilling for a week or so and let our friends miss us. They’ll soon tire of Lucia ordering them about.’
Major Benjy racked his brains for some reason to stay put. It was a long drive to Dawlish and it would seem longer still with his wife at the wheel.
‘But your official work as Mayoress,’ he insisted. ‘Can’t just abandon your post like that. Most unsoldierly. Court-martial offence.’
‘I am the public’s servant, not their slave, and the humblest parlourmaid is allowed a little holiday. I’m sure Lucia can manage without me for a while and if she can’t it might teach her not to take me quite so much for granted in future. Withers, tea and a small whisky-and-soda. A treat, Benjy-boy, to warm you up after the cold air.’
Benjy regarded her warily, for he feared wives bearing gifts. Clearly there was something else behind this project of a Devonshire holiday besides motoring-practice. He countermanded the whisky-and-soda.
‘I still say it’s too much. Too exacting, too tiring. I’ll tell you what, though. We might share the driving, if you like, fifty-fifty or sixty-forty. Then you can get your practice without wearing yourself out.’
Elizabeth’s countenance showed no emotion behind the fixed smile that was her defensive visor. ‘How thoughtful! Yet I shall never learn unless I do it myself. It’s very sweet of you to offer, but I’m sure I can manage.’
‘I insist!’ cried the Major, thumping the table with his clenched fist. ‘No wife of mine will ever exhaust herself with hard physical labour. No, by God, not while there’s breath in my body. Either I shall do my share of motoring or we will not stir from the house.’
Elizabeth leaned across the table and put her hand on his. ‘Very well then,’ she said, ‘we shall see. But you must let me have some practice. Else how shall I be able to drive all the time when we get back?’
Major Benjy relaxed. The threat to his life had partly abated and he began to wonder what had so worried Elizabeth about staying in Tilling that she could allow herself to be overruled in this fashion. He wondered also whether it might not be possible, after all, to get that whisky-and-soda.
‘So that’s agreed,’ continued Elizabeth gaily. ‘Now let’s have our tea and discuss where we are to go. So glad you decided against having a glass of whisky, Benjy. Tea is so much better for you than spirits.’
Withers, the Mapp-Flints’ long-suffering parlourmaid, brought in the tray and informed her mistress that Mrs. Pillson had telephoned while they had been out and would she call back as soon as she returned?
‘Elizabetha mia!’ warbled the Mayor’s voice, and even electrically transmitted it seemed to fill the room like a miasma. ‘Molto grazie for returning my call prestissimo. Just a quick word to inform you that we’ve just had a Council meeting—how we miss your good judgement and common sense, dear!—and the Town Clerk thinks that the old ordinance can be brought up to date and that you are to receive an allowance of five pounds per annum towards the cost of petroleum and vehicle maintenance.’
Hairs began to rise on the back of Elizabeth’s neck. Lucia was definitely up to something or other and she thanked her guardian angel for putting it into her mind to leave Tilling for a while.
‘So thoughtful of you, dear. So typical of your sweet, generous nature, but I cannot in all honesty accept. It would be too wrong of me to take the rate-payers’ money. Why, when I had the privilege to serve on Your Worship’s Council, my policy was always economy, frugality and the ruthless control of waste. And besides, you over-praise me if you think that I intend to use my motor for civic business alone. Why, Benjy-boy and I have just now resolved on a motor-tour of Devonshire—’ There was a loud bump at the other end of the wire and Elizabeth correctly deduced that Lucia had dropped the receiver.
‘No!’ Lucia exclaimed when she had recovered the instrument from the waste-paper basket, into which it had fallen. ‘How splendid! And you are entitled to a holiday if anyone is after your tireless efforts for the community and the strain of the recent elections. But not too long, mind. You know how much we rely on you even now, both in public and in private life.’
Lucia hung up the receiver, leaving Elizabeth at her end of the wire as stunned as she was herself. For if actual coals of fire had been heaped on Elizabeth’s head rather than merely scriptural ones, she could not have been more astonished. As for Lucia, this unexpected stroke of luck made a rosy prospect almost blood-red.
‘Better and better, Georgie,’ she cried. ‘She’s going away for a holiday.’
‘No!’ said he, echoing her reaction. ‘That’s most unusual. What can she be up to now?’
‘Let me think,’ said Lucia, in mock contemplation. ‘Ah, I have it. She’s going away to practise her driving where no one can see her and where she can bump into as many trees as she likes. Then she’ll come sweeping back and impress us all with her virtuosity.’
‘Why, of course!’ cried Georgie. ‘That’s the reason. How tar’some she’ll be. Can’t you dissuade her? Think of something for her to do as Mayoress?’
‘That would be rather small-minded, don’t you think? Let her go to Devonshire. It is a sparsely-populated district where there will be far less risk of her killing, or injuring anyone in the course of her studies. Meanwhile, we can proceed with the Tapestry without any fear of her malice. By the time she gets back, everyone will be so deeply involved in the project that even if she wished to disrupt it—and I think we sometimes overestimate her malice—she would not be able to. But I hope that she will be swept up in the general enthusiasm on her return—yes, and Benjy too. I am convinced that deep down they would be only too delighted to be part of a project that can only bring glory on the town we all love.’
Georgie remembered something about someone who addressed people as if they were public meetings. It would apply very well to his wife, he thought sadly. Nevertheless, from what he could gather, it seemed as if the Tapestry would soon be under way and he was glad of that.
‘So we can start as soon as she goes?’ he asked. ‘How thrilling!’
‘I think so, dear. I have already got the shape of it in my mind, the outline, the narrative thrust—and I have been reading my source material very closely. Now, tell me what people think of the idea.’
Georgie saw that the pretence of green sealing-wax had been cast aside. ‘Oh, I didn’t tell them about the Tapestry in case they told Elizabeth. I just hinted. I mentioned “the Normans” to them and told them to work it out for themselves. I don’t think it was a terribly good clue.’
‘Never mind, it will stimulate their minds and create a sense of expectation. What is that word the cinema people use? Subliminal. They will be thinking about history, Georgie, our mediaeval past, our heritage.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that too. There’s the riots and the plague and the infestation of rats in the reign of Queen Matilda. Apparently, they came ashore from some ships and ate all the corn in the granary.’
‘Admirable,’ said Lucia, with distaste. ‘But I think we might include some of the more cheerful episodes as well.’
She rose and went out to the garden-room, where her notes and sketches, and Georgie’s own preliminary work, formed a thick pile of papers on her desk. It was a reassuring sight that seemed to promise her a world of future achievement. She ought to get down to the work of ordering and consolidating her material but she could not resist the temptation to fit in some additional episodes of an exceptionally charming nature that she had come across in an old guidebook. Certainly the project would not be lacking in sco
pe. There were, at the last count, ninety-seven completed scenes and only a little exertion would be needed to fill up the round hundred. At the rate of one scene per worker per day, the project would soon be completed and ready to display. The only drawback, as far as she could see, was that this invigorating and enjoyable exercise would so soon be finished.
She looked out of the window at the darkened streets and considered how much the effect of that view upon her had changed in the last few days. To think that such an inspiring scene could have seemed to taunt her with lack of achievement! Now it was almost as if West Street were a triumphal route waiting for her conquering foot to take the first step towards that contentment which only comes with fulfillment of noble designs. She felt like some Classical heroine—but which one? There was sad Procne, who wove into a tapestry the history of Tereus’ abominable crimes—that did not seem to strike the right note. Then she remembered patient Penelope, whose everlasting needlework had safeguarded her honour and found immortality in Homer’s transcendent verse. That, she felt, was rather more like it.
Had she paused to consider the implications of that all too appropriate authority ....
Chapter 3
The Mapp-Flints departed with great grinding of gears, waving of handkerchiefs and promises of postcards, and Lucia at last felt herself free to launch the great project. Norman fever had settled on Tilling and only the Mapp-Flints, with other things on their minds, had remained unaffected by it all. Everything connected with the Conqueror had been investigated to see if they could cast any light on Georgie’s mystic utterances.
‘I think it’s something to do with the Norman Tower,’ said Diva, as she took tea at the Vicarage. ‘It’s the most Norman thing I can think of. Perhaps she’s going to have it restored.’
‘But it is in excellent repair as it is,’ said Susan Wyse. ‘I am sure that our dear Lucia means something far more important, and besides, I do not see how we could participate in any programme of renovation of the Tower. On the whole, I think Mr. Georgie’s clue had some subtler meaning. There is, after all, a direct line of descent from William the Conqueror to our present monarch. A Royal Visit, perhaps?’
