by Tom Holt
He thumped the table, crushing a currant bun, and turned away, folding his arms, as if challenging Olga to dissuade him. But Olga simply sat for a while and thought.
‘Poor Georgie,’ she said at last. ‘You should have married me when you had the chance and then none of this would ever have happened. No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ For Georgie had given her such a piteous look that she could hardly bear to meet it. ‘But all the same,’ she said seriously, ‘I’m surprised at you, Georgie Pillson. How long have you known Lucia now? Well, I don’t know and I won’t embarrass you by making you answer. Everyone knows that you are thirty-nine, and the mathematics won’t work out. But it is a good few years and still you don’t understand her. Lucia is—well, she’s like some tremendously stirring period in history, that can be quite dreadful to live through, but you wouldn’t have missed it for the world. No, Georgie, listen, I’m being serious. There are some people, and I, who am so much older and wiser than you, can recognise one when I see her, who have a right to put upon other people, even make them miserable at times, because they’re unique. Lucia’s just like that. She’s like an elephant, Georgie. She goes crashing through the jungle, trampling on everything and everybody, but she can get away with it because she’s bigger than everyone else. Not better, but bigger. Now you’re better than she is, much better, but never mind that; you and everybody else just have to put up with her, and, when you’re really furious with her, just stop for a minute and think how funny she is.’
‘Funny?’ said Georgie, bewildered, ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean—well, never mind. I’ll tell you what, Georgie. If I tell you that Lucia is worth giving one more chance, will you do it, just for me? As a special favour?’
Georgie was silent for a while, as if two factions were fighting for control of his voice.
‘Just for you,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll give her another chance.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Olga. ‘I knew you would. Now, don’t you worry about Lucia not wanting to speak to you again or leaving Tilling forever. I’ve had an idea that will fix everything. It’ll be a surprise.’
‘I hate surprises,’ said Georgie. ‘Tell me now.’
‘Absolutely not. But I mean to give Lucia an extra special triumph that will make her bigger and even more unbearable than ever before. Meanwhile you will have to think of something that will make Elizabeth, Diva and everyone forgive Lucia, or the triumph won’t work at all.’
‘I can’t think of anything!’ cried Georgie. ‘What on earth could make them forgive her? Why I’ve only forgiven her for your sake!’
‘You’ll think of something,’ said Olga, ‘and then I shall be very proud of you. Or something will turn up. But I’ve thought of one reason why you and Lucia can’t be parted. If she goes to Riseholme for good she’ll keep Cadman with her and then Foljambe will leave too. Think of that!’
‘Don’t!’ cried Georgie, who had been worrying about just such a dreadful possibility. ‘It would be bad enough to lose Lucia, without losing Foljambe too!’
‘I thought you’d say that. So you see, your fortunes are inextricably entwined, and my gipsy blood—did I ever tell you about that, Georgie?—makes me prophesy that everything will come out marvellously and everyone will live happily ever after—except Elizabeth, of course, and she’ll just disappear in a little green cloud of jealousy, which will be even better. Give me some more tea, Georgie, and I’ll read the tea-leaves for you.’
So Georgie poured her another cup of tea, which was cold (but Olga did not mind) and they chatted for a while about more pleasant things—Olga’s tour of Australia (where they had named an ice-cream sundae after her) and the new part that Signor Cortese was writing for her, which was to be either Viola or Cordelia, depending on whether it turned out funny or sad.
Finally, Olga looked at her watch and said that she had to go, because she was giving a party at Brompton Square and it was rude for the hostess to be more than an hour late. As Georgie was seeing her into her car she stopped and took a little stone carving from her pocket; a tiny bird with a bunch of grapes in its mouth. She pressed it into his hand and said:
‘There you are, Georgie. It’s a little carving I was given in Australia and I want you to have it, because it reminds me so much of Lucia when she puts her head on one side and asks you a question. Put it in your waistcoat pocket—never mind if it spoils the shape—and then, whenever you feel angry with Lucia, you’ll remember your promise to me and forgive her. Goodbye, Georgie.’
And she started up the motor and was gone. Georgie watched until she was out of sight, then went upstairs to his dressing-room and unlocked the cabinet where he kept his bibelots. In the most honoured place of all, next to the silver thimble that might just conceivably have belonged to Marie Antoinette, he placed the little statuette; then he closed the cabinet, locked it and went downstairs.
Georgie slept late the next morning and by the time he had risen and made his usual careful toilette it was almost the marketing hour. He had no taste for the excitement of the High Street, especially today, for the news of Lucia’s departure would have broken and that was a topic he did not want to discuss. He sat for a while and tried to think of some way of conciliating the people of Tilling towards Lucia, but could not, so he went downstairs to look at the post.
There was only one letter and it bore the crest of Buckingham Palace. Georgie was quite startled at first, and then be remembered that the Queen had been at Mallards the day before yesterday; perhaps she had left something behind. He started to open it, and then recollected that it was addressed to Lucia. He stopped, the paper-knife already half-way through the flap of the envelope, searching in his mind for a pretext for finishing what he had started. It occurred to him that Lucia had specifically requested that nothing should disturb her rest-cure; it was his duty to open this letter on her behalf.
It was from Lady Jane Hall, thanking Mrs. Pillson for a nice tea and so on; but there was also something about the curtains. He read it and rubbed his eyes. The words seemed incomprehensible and his mind could not encompass them. Slowly and in a clear voice he read the paragraph aloud and then it made sense. Just to make sure he read it out again.
‘The Queen also commands me,’ he declaimed:
to thank you on her behalf, and on behalf of the Needle-women’s Guild, for the exquisite curtains that you presented to the Guild through Her Majesty. The Queen is full of admiration for the skill and artistry with which the work is executed and wishes me to congratulate on her behalf your husband and the other men and women of Tilling who, as you informed Her Majesty, designed and executed this magnificent piece of embroidery.
Georgie bit his lower lip, which hurt; he did not know what to do for the best. Should he drown himself at once, or would it be better to tell everybody about the letter first? He considered this problem for a moment, and a third possibility occurred to him. Ought he to telephone Lucia in Riseholme and tell her that her name had been cleared by no less a person than the Queen herself, then tell everyone, and then drown himself? No, for one’s words tended to get muddled up as they travelled down those many miles of cable, and he particularly wanted Lucia to understand his message. He then reflected that the shortest way to the River Rother from Mallards was along the High Street, so he might as well spread the news as he went.
He called to Foljambe that he was going out, grabbed his military cape and the first hat that came to hand, and dashed down West Street, causing a motor-bicycle to swerve and himself nearly colliding with an errand-boy delivering fruit to Taormina.
He did not have much further to go, for the people of Tilling had gathered outside the poulterer’s to discuss Lucia’s departure. The Royce was drawn up outside the shop and there was Mr. Wyse craning over Susan’s fur-clad shoulder. There was Diva and the Padre, and beside him Major Benjy, and facing them Elizabeth and Evie (the cat and the mouse, thought Georgie irrelevantly). They were already excited about something. How much m
ore excited they would be presently!
‘Good morning, Mr. Georgie,’ Elizabeth had started to say, but she had got no further than ‘Good’ for Georgie had leapt upon the group like a small lion attacking a herd of rather statuesque buffalo, and with no more preliminaries than a rather breathless ‘Listen to this!’, he read out the important paragraph. When he had finished, he handed the letter round and everyone (except Diva, who had been buying fish and did not want to mark the immaculate parchment) took it and read it.
‘So you see,’ cried Georgie, ‘she didn’t take all the credit for herself, as we thought; she gave it to us, when it was really all her idea and she did the designing. It must have been when she was talking to the Queen in the hall, when you couldn’t hear, and that bit about a poor thing but mine own must have been about the idea, not the whole thing. And now we’ve accused her of something horrid she didn’t do and she’s gone off to Riseholme and she’ll never come back!’
His voice tailed off, and there was absolute silence. Then everyone started talking as quickly as they could. They had known that she had gone, but not that she had gone to Riseholme, and certainly not that she had gone for ever. Diva stood wringing her hands and moaning ‘What shall I do?’ to herself, while the Padre shook his head sadly and Evie squeaked ‘It wasn’t me!’ over and over again. Major Benjy shot a nervous look at his wife and edged away, muttering something about being late for the tram. Only Elizabeth seemed unaffected by remorse and fear, for something that Georgie had said—perhaps it was that phrase about never coming back—had filled her soul with music, and she whispered ‘God save the Queen’ under her breath.
When a semblance of calm had descended on the hysterical throng and they had all dispersed, looking miserable, Georgie went back to Mallards. On the way, he stopped at Taormina to tell Irene, who cried ‘Yippee!’ and kissed him on the forehead, at which he recoiled, but put it down to the excitement of the moment. As he rang the bell of Mallards (for he had come out without his key), he remembered Olga’s prophecy of the day before about something turning up that would solve everything.
‘I wonder how she knew?’ he said to himself, as Foljambe opened the door. ‘But, after all, she knows everything.’
Chapter 15
The news was not good. When Georgie tried to telephone Lucia at the Ambermere Arms, he had been told, as he had been told every day for the past week, that she was unavailable. His letter had not been answered, except for a very polite note asking him, in future, to forward her mail unopened. This he had done—and there had been quite a flood of letters for her, with curious postmarks and unfamiliar handwriting—and there seemed to be little more that he could do. Twice he had walked to the station with his suitcase packed, resolved to go to Riseholme and confront her; but on the first occasion he found that he had come out without any money and, when he returned to the station, his courage failed him.
Apart from Elizabeth, everyone was very worried; but Elizabeth had (so she thought) risen to the occasion quite splendidly. It had occurred to her, almost before Georgie had finished speaking outside Mr. Rice’s shop, that since Lucia had, so to speak, deserted her post as Mayor, someone had better deputise for her, and she had proceeded to open two jumble sales and a Sunday School Bazaar before the Corporation realised that Lucia had gone away. When Elizabeth explained to them that Lucia was unlikely to return, the Councillors were all deeply affected; one of them, a usually very cheerful man who worked for the Sanitation Department, was quite cast down and declared that Lucia was the best Mayor that the town had ever had and that no one else could have organised the Royal Visit so splendidly. To this Elizabeth felt compelled to reply that no Mayor worth her salt would have abandoned her responsibilities so wantonly, and demanded a vote of no confidence. At this Irene, who, it may be remembered, had displaced Elizabeth on the Council, demanded that Elizabeth be ejected from the Town Hall, and Elizabeth felt it wise to depart. She had, however, continued to deputise for Lucia at various functions, despite the fact that an official deputy Mayor had been appointed, with the result that a Produce Show was opened twice and the new Pumping Station had two foundation stones.
So dispirited had the town become that Elizabeth’s activities went almost without comment. When Diva reported to the morning shoppers that Elizabeth had claimed the use of the Mayoral car and, on being refused, had gone on sitting in it for quite five minutes, declining to leave, the news was greeted with apathetic murmurs and the comment from the Padre that they could expect a great deal of such behaviour frae Mistress Mapp-Flint now that Lucia had gone awa’.
It was this fear of Elizabethan domination that most worried the citizens of the town. All of them could remember the days before Lucia’s coming, when Elizabeth had held unchallenged sway, and that had been bad enough; but Elizabeth’s character had been hardened and embittered in her constant war against Lucia, and the events of the past year alone had given her a fine store of grudges to be worked off. Mr. Wyse, in particular, thought of Elizabeth’s portrait and trembled at the prospect of the retribution that must follow, while Evie was under no illusions about what was likely to happen to her if Elizabeth remembered (as she undoubtedly did) certain words she had spoken on that occasion. Already Elizabeth had picked a quarrel with Diva over a petunia in the garden at Grebe which Paddy had dug up in a fruitless search for some long-forgotten bone; as if there was not enough unhappiness in the town without creating new miseries! Yet there was no earthly chance of their displacing Elizabeth on their own; Tilling Society needed a leader, or else it would simply collapse.
‘Lucia was horrible to us at times, I agree,’ said Evie as she poured tea for her guests at the Vicarage. ‘Just think of that County Life business. But,’ she lowered her voice, ‘she was never as bad as Elizabeth.’
‘Where is Elizabeth, by the way?’ asked Georgie nervously. ‘Didn’t you invite her?’
‘She invited herself,’ said Evie, ‘but you know she’s always the last to arrive. I expect she will turn up in a minute and tell us all about what she’s been doing. That’s why I didn’t dare invite Diva, or she would have been unpleasant to her again. Oh, I can’t stand any more of this!’
‘Susan and I are contemplating a visit to Capri,’ said Mr. Wyse. ‘We wrote to Amelia yesterday. Heartbroken as we will be to leave Tilling, especially,’ he said miserably, ‘in the summer, when the town is quite at its best—the strawberry season, you know—I do think that after the events of the past few weeks, a holiday—an extended holiday—might be advisable. Then we have a standing invitation to visit my cousins in Whitchurch; and in October there is a suggestion that we might go to Scotland, for the shooting, you understand.’
‘I ought to go and visit my sisters,’ broke in Georgie. ‘I haven’t seen them for ages.’
‘Your mention o’ the Highlands fills me with a sudden longing to see the bonny heather again,’ said the Padre hurriedly. ‘What do you say, wee wifie?’
Evie said that it was a splendid idea; indeed had her husband declared that he had heard the call of missionary work in Mashonaland, she would probably have consented to go with him, for the thought of being left behind as Elizabeth’s only remaining subject would have been far more terrifying than going to dwell in the Dark Continent. At that moment, however, Elizabeth arrived with Major Benjy, looking very hot and uncomfortable in his second-best suit and a stiff collar, for as the husband of the Mayor’s (unofficial) deputy, he had been called upon to dress respectably.
‘How cosy this is,’ said Elizabeth brightly as she sat down at the tea-table. ‘So sorry I’m late, Evie dear, but I had to pop into the Town Hall on my way. Any news?’
There was an awkward silence, and Georgie became aware of Elizabeth’s eye upon him, fixing him like a butterfly to a collector’s tray.
‘I might be going to stay with my sisters,’ he said. ‘It’s so long since I went to see them last and they did send me a card at Christmas.’
‘Mr. Georgie!’ exclaimed Elizabet
h. ‘How could you think of such a thing! Is it not bad enough that we should be without poor Lucia?’ (Elizabeth always called her ‘poor Lucia’ these days, rather as in Homer the sea is always described as ‘wine-dark’.) ‘No, we cannot allow you to go away and leave us all.’
Georgie did his mental arithmetic and worked out that without him, even if she pardoned Diva, Elizabeth could not compose two tables for Bridge. He realised suddenly that she would not permit him to leave; he was a prisoner in Tilling, chained, like a slave to a treadmill, to Elizabeth’s Bridge-table. He uttered a faint groan, which Elizabeth seemed to take for a symptom of indigestion, for she told him not to eat his cake so quickly. The would-be fugitives looked at each other in despair.
‘Such a pity that Diva could not be here,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘Poor thing, she does take on. Just because I had occasion to utter a mild rebuke—that dog of hers, so unruly—she has become as sullen as a spoilt child and won’t come out of her house.’
‘Surely not?’ quavered Georgie. He had not realised that Diva was under house arrest.
‘I haven’t seen her since,’ said Elizabeth. ‘How that wretched animal causes trouble for her, knocking things over and damaging people’s property. I wouldn’t blame her if she got rid of it.’
‘But she’s very attached to it, isn’t she?’ murmured Evie.
‘Perhaps. But she will have to choose which she values most, her dog or her friends. I won’t have it in the house, and I advise you to do the same. Such a dreadful creature, forever tracking mud all over the carpets. My Benjy is quite firm that if he ever sees it in our garden again he will add it to his other trophies.’
