Lucia Triumphant

by Tom Holt

  Even more important than costume was actual location. There was no point in being dressed well if the Tillingites were in the wrong place, unable to see or to be seen. Georgie was unable to tell them what the proposed itinerary was to be; he tried to explain that even Lucia did not know yet, for the tangle of papers on her desk was now totally impenetrable and she was talking of starting again from scratch. Nobody believed him, however, and he was suspected of concealing the truth for dark reasons of his own.

  In order to find out the truth, Elizabeth suggested that a watch be kept on Lucia’s movements, and pickets and observers were duly posted about the town to see where she went. The Padre at once began an investigation of the lead on the top of the church tower, although why he needed binoculars to examine what was under his feet was a mystery. Evie spent a lot of time in the stationer’s, debating what shade of writing-paper she wanted and frequently darting out into the street to examine the colours by daylight. Diva spent a whole morning in the queue at the post-office, for she always seemed to lose her place whenever she got to the front, so busy was she, craning her neck to see what was going on in the street. A comparison of notes and sharing of information gleaned from other sources enabled the Watch Committee (as someone frivolously called the group) to work out a probable itinerary; but, since there was no way of knowing in which order the various places of interest would be visited, all this patient reconnaissance seemed to have been in vain.

  As usual, when a great deal of effort is expended with no tangible results, resentment began to manifest itself and a scapegoat was sought. Lucia, being in charge of all the arrangements, was the likeliest candidate for this unappealing part, and the fact that she never stopped in her frantic movements to wish them good-morning or release any snippet of useful information fuelled the flames of ill-feeling that flickered around the tea-cups and Bridge-tables of Tilling.

  ‘She’s deliberately keeping out of our way,’ said Elizabeth, speaking not for herself alone. ‘She wants the Queen all to herself, and no one else is to be allowed even a sight of her. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the visit took place at dead of night and Queen Mary was shown round by the light of a lantern.’

  ‘She can’t very well invite us all to take tea with Her Majesty,’ said Georgie, forgetting that his place at the Royal tea-table was assured.

  ‘Well, you will certainly meet her,’ said Evie, ‘because you are Lucia’s prince consort, or whatever she calls you. It’s us who will be kept out.’

  Mr. Wyse, as a member of an old and distinguished family, and Susan, who was an M.B.E., felt very strongly about this subject, and, although Mr. Wyse at least did not allow his displeasure to manifest itself in any way, his silence was sufficient to encourage Elizabeth to develop her theme.

  ‘The least she could do,’ she said, pouring milk into her cup, ‘would be to tell us the route by which the Royal party is to travel. How else can we ensure that Her Majesty gets a friendly and patriotic welcome? It won’t look very well if the streets are all deserted. Very apathetic we will seem and Her Majesty will say “Very well, I shan’t visit Tilling again, if that’s how they feel.” ’

  ‘Lucia has been very busy, you know,’ Georgie started to say, but the atmosphere of cold hostility that greeted his words caused him to fall silent. In addition he felt slightly guilty that he, who was in no respect remarkable or outstanding, should be assured of an audience when everyone else was excluded. As a result, his privileged position seemed to lose its charm for him, and he even toyed with the idea of being indisposed on the day of the visit. But that would seem rude, so he gave it up. Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that he returned to Mallards and to the fusillade of complaints about the head gardener that constituted his welcome.

  ‘My request for snowdrops and violets—for simple charm is, as you know, to be the keynote of the proceedings—was met with plain rudeness,’ she said. ‘Instead, I was offered daffodils and narcissi—just think of it, Georgie—and bright yellow tulips. Yellow, mind you, not red, which I believe the Queen admires. We might as well offer Her Majesty a bunch of carrots and brassica.’

  ‘It is a little late for snowdrops,’ said Georgie diffidently, but Lucia swept his words away as a liner might sweep away a fishing-boat.

  ‘And then I find that the child I had selected to present the bouquet—the only one who would possibly do—has been allowed to catch mumps and is confined to bed. Why the authorities thought fit to ignore my suggestion that the child be kept out of school, and thus away from the risk of infection, until after the visit, I cannot hope to understand. It is almost as though someone were trying to sabotage my plans.’

  Georgie did not not even try to reply to this. Instead he sat back in his chair and attempted to think of pleasant things, such as picnics by a river or walks in a formal garden. Sadly the river-banks and flower-beds of his imagining were lined with daffodils and narcissi and staringly yellow tulips, so he gave it up. All through dinner the tirade continued, so that he got indigestion; and, when in a lull in the narrative, he meekly suggested a piano duet to soothe away the tribulations of the day (Lucia’s own favourite specific for troubled minds) he was briskly informed that there was no time for such indulgence, and went early to bed.

  ‘I hope it rains,’ he said bitterly, and switched off the light.

  Alone of the ladies of Tilling, Elizabeth took no thought for the morrow, what she might wear. She knew that, even as she sat and sipped tea at Grebe, a measured quantity of the finest silk was being rushed from Macclesfield to clothe her. Secure in this knowledge she evaded with skilful and infuriating guile all attempts to wheedle from her details of her costume. Let them guess as much as they liked, she would outshine them all. Her only concern was lest she should outshine Her Majesty, but that was improbable. True, the material she had requested seemed to have been a long time in coming; but she had been promised it for Thursday. Thursday had come, and there would be plenty of time to have the dress made up. The pattern she had chosen was one that would display the silk to its best advantage and the dressmaker had promised to hold herself in readiness for its delivery. So Elizabeth walked into town and collected her parcel.

  ‘Good morning,’ she carolled as she entered the shop, then noticed to her irritation that Evie was lurking in a corner, feigning interest in some purple ribbon. So she lowered her voice and asked if her order were ready, taking care not to mention the type of material, for Evie’s ears were sharp.

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Mapp-Flint, your order arrived this morning. That’ll be nine shillings and elevenpence altogether.’

  This struck Elizabeth as decidedly cheap for the very finest Macclesfield silk, but her upbringing and her natural frugality had instilled in her the importance of never acknowledging a bargain.

  ‘Dear me,’ she therefore said, ‘what a price things are these days.’

  To her surprise the draper agreed with her and for a moment she felt unaccountably suspicious. But Evie had moved up towards the counter and was nonchalantly inspecting a card of buttons, so instead of opening the parcel and having a look at the contents, she thanked the draper and took the parcel straight to the dressmaker. There she found Diva, fussing endlessly about her tea-rose georgette, so she thrust the package into the dressmaker’s arms, giving her a terrible look to ensure secrecy, wished Diva good-morning and hurried on her way. She spent the rest of the morning engaged in casual shopping, welcoming now the desperate attempts of her friends to wheedle her secret from her and leaving them with a fine selection of erroneous impressions.

  This pleasant occupation filled up the time until lunch, and she returned home with a light and happy step, to find Major Benjy engaged in a fearsome argument with Withers. The accusation was that Withers had burnt a hole in the trouser-leg of his second-best suit, to which Withers replied austerely that it was not a flat-iron but the terror that flies by night which had done the damage, damage that would not have occurred had her request to be allowed to put the Major�
��s garments into mothballs been granted. Elizabeth resolved this bitter dispute with Solomon-like diplomacy, accepting that the damage had been done by moth, and scolding Withers for not putting the clothes into mothballs on her own initiative. This seemed to satisfy both parties, to some extent at least, and tranquillity was restored. Having obtained silence, Elizabeth sat down to think about the forthcoming event and plan what her rôle in it might be. Ought she to ignore the whole affair, as being devalued by Lucia’s commandeering of the Royal party and the entire occasion; or ought she to follow each step with diligent attention, the better to be able to offer constructive advice and criticism after the visit was over? As Mayoress she had a duty to perform the latter function, yet Lucia had not yet seen fit even to request her presence, which was an insult not only to her but to the office she held and to the people of Tilling, whom, in some nebulous way, she represented. This fierce internal debate was interrupted by the distant clamour of the telephone, and after a short while Withers, still sullen after her rebuke, came to inform her that Mrs. Pillson was on the line and would like to speak to her.

  ‘Elizabeth, dear!’ Lucia’s voice, unmistakable even across the vast expanse of cable. ‘So glad I managed to catch you at last. I’ve been ringing all day. You dear thing, how elusive you are!’

  Elizabeth drew in her breath to rebut this charge of flightiness, but the delay proved fatal. Lucia continued. Lucia, it seemed, never needed to stop for breath.

  ‘Could you possibly spare me a minute this afternoon just to discuss your official rôle as Mayoress in the Royal Visit. I’m sorry it’s such short notice, but you can have no idea how terribly busy I have been, and every time I manage to find five minutes to telephone you, Withers says you are out! Oh dear!’ and a wistful sigh floated through the receiver. ‘Everything seems to be happening at once. Anyway, could you be especially kind to poor tired me and spare half-an-hour at—let me see’—pages, beyond doubt those of an engagement-book, rustled at the other end—‘ah yes—twenty-past three? Cadman will call for you in the motor.’

  The voice fell silent just long enough to allow Elizabeth to say ‘Yes’, and then bade her farewell and was replaced by the dialling tone. As Elizabeth put the instrument down, she was reminded of an unfortunate lady in mythology who was for ever being pursued by a persistent, buzzing gadfly. Lucia’s telephone manner made Elizabeth sympathize with that poor sufferer. She ate her lunch with a troubled heart, pondering the new difficulties that had arisen. She could not refuse to cooperate, for her office demanded that she render all possible assistance to the Mayor in her official capacity. But she foresaw only too clearly that her part in the proceedings would be that of a subordinate, a mere instrument of ceremony, like the mace or the chain of office. Furthermore, by taking part in Lucia’s self-glorifying production, she would risk being identified with it, and the disdain which she had carefully fostered in the town would fall on her as much as on the true author of the proceedings, Lucia. She could not hope to have any say in the organisation of the event, or to alter its structure in any degree. She would probably not even be told what the intinerary was. On the other hand, she would almost certainly be allowed to join the Royal tea party, and that was a great consolation.

  As a result of these speculations she arrived at Mallards determined to play a purely honorary part in the proceedings; modesty, she would insist, forbade her seeking any of the limelight.

  ‘But Elizabeth, carissima,’ cried Lucia in apparent consternation, ‘think of your official rôle, your position as Mayoress! You represent the women of Tilling. I shall need you at my side throughout the day. This is no time for self-effacement. The ceremonial traditions of the town demand your presence—more, your active involvement.’

  ‘Too kind of you, Lucia,’ replied Elizabeth, rather startled, ‘but I am so unused to mixing in such society. Why, I should be tongue-tied and unable to speak. It would be far better if you, who have had so much practice ... all those duchesses and princesses we have heard about so often.’

  But Lucia was set on her purpose. If anything were to go wrong with the Visit, she wanted Elizabeth to be involved as deeply as herself, so that the blame might be shared equally. On the other hand, she could not bear the thought of Elizabeth taking the credit for a single particle of the hard work that she, and she alone, had put into this affair.

  ‘Just by being there,’ she said, ‘you will be performing the essential function that I have described to you. Look at it from my point of view, dear. Think how I would feel,’ and as she spoke a brilliant thought came to her, ‘if everyone were to say that just because I have had to do so much of the work myself, I had taken no account of popular feelings about the Visit. People might say that I had deliberately kept them out and told them nothing, just to keep the glory for myself!’

  ‘Perish the thought!’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Not everyone is as sensible as you, Elizabeth dear, which is why I want you to be my eyes and ears in the town, right up to the day of the Visit. Tell me what people are saying and thinking, what they would like to see, and so on. Then I can consider all reasonable suggestions, reject the obviously impracticable and incorporate such as are feasible into our programme. And you could do something else for me, if you would; you can tell everyone how things are going—what progress we are making with the itinerary and so on. So that when people come up to me and ask questions, I won’t have to stay and answer, I can just say “Ask the Mayoress, she will tell you.” Now you will do that for me, won’t you?’

  This was clearly a move of diabolical cunning on Lucia’s part. Not only would the blame for Lucia’s secrecy be shifted entirely on to the shoulders of her spokeswoman, but Elizabeth, as liaison between Town Hall and High Street, would be personally responsible for every discarded suggestion and rejected innovation, blamed by everyone for the dismissal of their contributions. She would be directly implicated in any failure, but unable to claim any credit for a success. She had, in short, been caught in a trap. Once her reluctant agreement had been elicited, she was dismissed from the Presence and sent back to Grebe, with instructions to report at eleven-o’clock sharp the next morning to be thoroughly briefed. The only thing she still had to look forward to was the Macclesfield silk. Apart from that, the future was bleak indeed.

  Just as she had feared there was no shortage of idiotic suggestions from the general public for Elizabeth to convey to Lucia, none of which Lucia found herself able to accept. The Padre, for instance, had the idea of a pipe-and-drum band to accompany the Queen throughout the town. Elizabeth had reported this and Lucia had explained patiently to her the difficulties that made the suggestion impossible (which Elizabeth already knew): that there was not one single bagpiper in the town and precious few drummers; that it seemed strange (to say the least) that Tilling, as far from Scotland as it is possible to be on the British mainland, should affect a Caledonian air for the Visit. Yet, when Elizabeth reported to the Padre that his suggestion had been rejected, he grew quite angry, not with Lucia, who had originally called for suggestions and thus was obviously open-minded, but with Elizabeth, whom he suspected of presenting his case ineffectually.

  With this terrible burden on her back, Elizabeth went for her first fitting. The pattern had been a complicated one and there was little time—today was Friday, the Visit was on Monday, the dressmaker would have to work all weekend to complete it. Furthermore, the poor woman was so busy with work for the other ladies of Tilling that she was having trouble fitting them all in.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Elizabeth greedily as the dressmaker brought out the creation. She was glad to see that the worthy woman had gone to the trouble of protecting the dress with a rayon cover. But when she tried to remove the cover, she found to her horror that there was nothing beneath.

  ‘Is that what you will be wearing on Monday, if you don’t mind my asking?’ said the dressmaker in a rather strange tone of voice. ‘I must say, I can’t keep up with these modern fashions.’

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bsp; ‘Where’s my dress?’ demanded Elizabeth hoarsely.

  ‘That is your dress, madam.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ gasped Elizabeth. ‘What on earth is it made of?’

  ‘Sateen, madam. Exactly as you gave it me.’

  Had she recalled them, Elizabeth would have echoed Macbeth’s words to his guests, ‘Which of you hath done this?’ As it was, she bolted through the door and dashed along the High Street to the draper’s shop. There she extracted the entire history of the sateen and Irene’s devilish deception. The draper, who was a sympathetic man, listened patiently to her eloquent denunciation of Irene, Fate and the World, which, for anyone who savoured the effusions of the Tragic Muse, were well worth hearing, and then informed her that it would be quite impossible to obtain Macclesfield silk before Monday. He also reminded Elizabeth that she had not yet paid for the sateen and asked whether it should be put on her account.