Olga sighed.
‘Norman runs the cabinet for Attlee, so he knows every cabinet minister and every senior civil servant. If we want someone to make discreet enquiries on our behalf I can’t think of anyone better. I’ll try to have lunch with him one day this week when I’m up in town.’
Georgie instantly felt very jealous at the idea of any other man having lunch with Olga, but suppressed the emotion with difficulty.
By this time they had arrived at Mallards. They opened the door, which naturally was on the latch in good Tilling fashion, and found that it still wanted a few minutes of one o’clock.
‘Lucia, darling,’ Olga said at once, ‘do I have time for a very quick telephone call?’
‘Help yourself, dear,’ Lucia replied, flapping a languid hand in the direction of the telephone room.
Olga gave the operator a Mayfair number and was soon speaking to Noël Coward’s valet.
‘Is he up yet?’ she enquired without preamble. ‘It’s Olga Bracely.’
‘I will enquire, madam,’ that worthy replied and there ensued a short pause before a clearly sleepy Noël Coward was brought to the phone.
‘Olga,’ he said distractedly. ‘What is it? You know I’m not to be disturbed before two o’clock. It is one of the firmest principles by which I govern my life.’
‘Never mind that,’ she replied briskly. ‘Do you remember a few weeks back when I got you and Johnnie and your friends a box when the House was sold out and you said it was doing you the most enormous favour and that you’d be sure to repay me some day?’
‘I believe so,’ came the languid reply in a silk dressing gown sort of voice. ‘What do you want – lunch?’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks to lunch. I want a proper favour.’
‘Oh, bother,’ Coward commented as if to himself. ‘I have the strangest idea that I’m not going to like this. What is it?’
So she told him, whereupon there ensued another pause, though this one preceded by a sharp intake of breath.
‘You know, Olga,’ he said finally and rather viciously, ‘sometimes you can be so very, very cruel.’
Chapter 6
The next morning brought the expected visit by the Padre, who presided over the spiritual welfare of his flock from the splendid Anglican church in the Church Square, its war memorial now sadly embellished by some additional names from a very recent conflict.
It was one of the many oddities of Tilling life that, crowded into a small distance of no more than about fifty yards, were not one but three places of worship, all of whom acted largely as though the others did not exist.
Across the road was the Methodist Chapel, from whence resounded on winter evenings rousing choruses of Gilbert and Sullivan, as the operatic society practised for their annual performance. On Sundays, well-scrubbed family groups of tradesmen and boatmen, stiffly uncomfortable in their Sunday best, went unsmilingly to their devotions. Their numbers were swollen occasionally by earnest-looking young men from South Wales clutching black bibles and in search of well-scrubbed daughters of tradesmen and boatmen with whom to discuss the finer points of the Ten Commandments over afternoon tea, though the seventh brought a sudden blush to maidenly cheeks and was usually passed over quickly with mutters and bowed heads.
Away from the Church Square, but only just, sat the small Catholic Church, where they ranked the Commandments in a different order. Here exotic rituals made use of incense and Latin incantations, and life as an altar boy could occasionally be as hazardous as that of a migrating zebra in the Serengeti.
The Anglican church was Tilling society in miniature. The servants sat at the back and scuttled away quickly through the side door to prepare their masters’ and mistresses’ Sunday lunches. Mapp gazed around quizzically, detecting signs of sinfulness from the very appearance of the members of the congregation. Major Benjy bellowed the words of the Apostles’ Creed as though issuing orders on a parade ground. Lucia, though no longer occupying the Mayor’s chair, smiled serenely at all as she held court afterwards with the Padre at the main door, expressing great delight at once more being able to greet every single one of the departing worshippers in person. Quaint Irene, who never actually attended church, nonetheless looked forward eagerly to Sunday Communion, since its conclusion coincided with the opening time of the pubs.
The well-known eccentricities of the English race were nowhere better demonstrated than in the Padre himself, who despite hailing originally from Birmingham, a city which Lucia graciously allowed might have one or two small districts which were almost respectable, nonetheless spoke determinedly in a broad Scottish accent and peppered his speech with Caledonian vocabulary. The church, for example, was always ‘the kirk’, while his consort, Evie, was never referred to as anything other than ‘the wee wifie’. Evie was a benevolent, mouse-like creature who had rarely been known to express an opinion about anything, and whose own speech pattern took the form of murine squeaks, which often seemed to be uttered on too high a frequency to be easily identified by the human ear.
‘Good morning, Padre,’ Lucia welcomed him. ‘What’s to do?’
‘Mistress Pillson,’ he reciprocated, ‘always such a pleasure, ye ken.’
‘You’ll take a cup of tea, of course?’
It was a more of a statement than a question, and Foljambe, who had just shown the Padre into the room, bobbed and disappeared.
Lucia of course knew exactly what the Padre had come to talk to her about, but was in no hurry to convey this. For one thing she was thinking feverishly about the best mode of reply and for another, she was not a woman ever voluntarily to surrender any advantage, no matter how slight.
She waved the Padre to a chair.
‘A fine sermon on Sunday, I thought, Padre mio,’ she began. ‘Let us hope that it was well noted by those most in need of its message.’
The Padre murmured something self-deprecating.
The sermon had been on the text ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness’, upon which theme the Padre had waxed lyrical for some fifteen minutes, though by the end his efforts had become somewhat circular, as indeed they tended to be. Long enough for Lucia to have gazed directly at Elizabeth Mapp-Flint with a determined and superior smile, only to find the object of her approbation staring back at her with an equally determined and superior countenance. In consequence, their mutual farewell after communion had been perhaps even a little more perfunctory than usual.
‘So what is it that brings you calling, Padre?’ Lucia went on, as Foljambe came back into the room with the tea tray which Grosvenor had begun preparing even as she saw the Padre approaching through the window.
She waved to Foljambe to continue.
‘Nothing wrong with my organ, I trust?’ she asked, just as her interlocutor was drawing breath to speak.
It was thanks to the generosity of Lucia that what was effectively a new and greatly expanded organ had been created out of the sad dotage of what had gone before, and she was inclined to claim ownership of it, ‘though only in a spiritual sense’ as she was wont to observe, lest anyone be inclined to overlook her role as benefactress.
‘No, dear lady, it’s as bonny as ever,’ he replied.
‘Nor the roof leaking again?’ she enquired.
This was unlikely since a complete new roof had been installed at her expense just before the war, and she was often to be seen before church on a Sunday examining it closely through opera glasses with the quizzical gaze of an expert surveyor, though this was surely intended by way of the concern natural in a parishioner, not to mention a former Mayor, for the fabric of the town church, rather than a crude reminder to all who may be watching of yet a further object of her largesse.
‘Bless you, Mistress Pillson, it’s as snug as ever,’ the Padre beamed.
‘Well then,’ she said as Foljambe left the room, ‘it must be something new and exciting. At least, I hope it will be exciting. I find I have so little excitement of late.’
‘But your wee visit to Riseh
olme …?’ the Padre asked in a puzzled tone. ‘Surely that was exciting, to see so many old friends?’
Lucia considered this for a moment or two.
‘Enjoyable, certainly,’ she spoke at last. ‘Yes, enjoyable rather than exciting. After all, when one knows a place so well, a visit evokes contentment and sense of homecoming. Particularly when one has so many old friends waiting to greet one.’
She broke off and gazed dreamily into the distance, clearly overcome by memories of the massed inhabitants of Riseholme all beckoning her frantically from their open front doors, but then with a visible effort brought herself back to the more prosaic reality of the here and now.
Reverend Bartlett was understandably reluctant to break in upon this reverie, as indeed he was intended to be, but warbled ‘Aye, isn’t that just the way of it?’ in a Scottish and consoling manner by way of a preamble.
‘It’s the Tenterden fête I’ll be after talking to you about,’ he continued, lapsing into Irish syntax in the heat of the moment, but pronouncing ‘about’ as ‘aboot’ as if to compensate.
‘Tenterden?’ Lucia asked vacantly. ‘But what on earth has that to do with us, Padre? It’s miles away. Why, it’s not even in Sussex, I believe. Isn’t it over in Kent?’
The manner of her delivery would have caused any listener to overlook the fact that the Kent border lay just up the Military Road, and to understand instantly that Lucia would not normally dream of venturing into such an undesirable county unless paying a visit to someone of at least the rank of a Marquess.
‘Aye, you have the right of it,’ the Padre acknowledged. ‘It’s in Kent sure enough.’
‘Why then I rest my case,’ Lucia said magisterially. ‘Surely none of our affair.’
She raised her cup to her lips with an air of bringing the conversation to a definite conclusion.
The Padre wavered, but then persisted.
‘Normally, you would of course be correct,’ he havered, ‘yes, normally …’
Lucia raised an eyebrow over the rim of her cup.
‘And of what abnormality are you aware,’ she enquired in the manner of Lady Bracknell, ‘which might even conceivably make it our concern?’
The Padre was flummoxed. He had expected some resistance to his request but not an outright counter-attack, and certainly not at such an early stage of the proceedings.
‘Och, weel,’ he began, looking to Lucia for some sign of encouragement but in vain. The eyebrow remained resolutely raised.
‘You see, the thing is,’ he began again, ‘the poor wee vicar away in yon Tenterden has been taken poorly. Very poorly indeed.’
Lucia looked as though the state of health of the incumbent of St Mildred’s, Tenterden was a matter of supreme indifference to her, whereupon the Padre, consummate bridge player that he was, played his trump card.
‘The Bishop,’ he said, and this time it was his turn to gaze over his tea cup, ‘is very keen that I should lend my support. “Rally round in an hour of need” is the way he put it, I believe.’
‘Oh well,’ Lucia conceded graciously, ‘if my Lord Bishop desires it then naturally, Padre, you must heed his wishes. He is after all your ecclesiastical superior.’
‘Aye,’ warbled the Padre, ‘that’s aboot the size of it.’
There now followed a somewhat pregnant pause during which Lucia gazed serenely at the Padre without appearing really to focus upon him, while he seemed to be waiting expectantly for her to say something more. Predictably, it was his nerve that cracked first.
‘In fact, the poor mannie has the thing almost complete, ye ken. His wifie posted me the programme and it’s a marvel the way his committee has rallied round and arranged things. Cake stands, a dog show, look-alike competitions, a band. Why it almost puts our own poor efforts in the shade.’
Lucia put her cup down in the saucer rather sharply. She was the Lady Chairman of the organising committee for the Tilling fête, and had been for many years since Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had made the fatal error of asking for a vote of confidence when one of Lucia’s ideas had been preferred to her own. The solitary vote in favour (her own) had been duly recorded, after which she had gone very red in the face and sailed imperiously from the room. Lucia had murmured, ‘Oh dear, poor Elizabeth,’ before graciously consenting to take her place (motion carried, nem con, vote of thanks to Mrs Mapp-Flint for her past services, Mrs Pillson took the chair).
‘Of course, Tenterden is a much larger place than wee Tilling, ye ken,’ the Padre commented, moving swiftly to mollify his hostess. ‘So it’s hardly surprising that they should have a larger fête forbye.’
‘But if the arrangements are so well advanced,’ Lucia commented glacially, ‘and the committee so efficient, I fail to see why your assistance should be required at all, Padre.’
‘Just filling in a few wee gaps, as it were,’ the Padre responded smoothly. ‘In fact, dear lady, I was wondering, or rather the Bishop was wondering, if you might be able to “rally round” a wee thing yourse’n.’
‘The Bishop?’ Lucia asked. ‘He mentioned me? Specifically?’
The Padre nodded. While it was not strictly true that he had spoken to the Bishop, the Archdeacon had been clear that it was the Bishop’s wishes which he was conveying, and “that wretched organ woman” was surely a specific reference to Lucia.
‘What a nice man,’ Lucia said benevolently. ‘Such a shame that he is always too busy to accept my dinner invitations.’
She looked meaningfully at the Padre, who panicked momentarily. His terms of reference did not include negotiating appointments in the Bishop’s diary. He decided to ignore this sally and press on.
‘It’s just the opening of it,’ he said a little desperately. ‘Everything else is in place the noo, well more or less anyway. And we were wondering whether you might be able to come to our rescue.’
Lucia recognised that her efforts to head off the conversation into safer pastures had failed, and that she was being steered steadily towards some very dangerous ground indeed.
‘Three weeks on Saturday, did you say?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ the Padre replied, though he was quite sure he had said nothing of the kind.
Lucia pinched the bridge of her nose and said, ‘Let me see.’ She concentrated very hard for a moment and then shook her head sadly, clearly unable fully to bring to mind her welter of engagements, and reached for her diary.
‘Why, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘I find that I am free that afternoon. Now let me just write it down. There: Open Tenterden fête. Goodness, how you all work me so.’
She shook her head in dazed recognition of responsibility for yet another contribution to the public good being undertaken.
‘And now, dear Padre,’ she said briskly as she stood up and rang the bell, ‘I really must shoo you away. If I do not finish my correspondence soon I will never have time for my Dante session before lunch.’
The Padre suddenly realised that he had been comprehensively out-manoeuvred, often the prevalent sensation as a conversation with Lucia drew to a close. He went to speak, but could not find the words.
‘Ah, Grosvenor,’ Lucia said, ‘Reverend Bartlett is just leaving. Pray show him out. Padre, how nice to see you as always. Please give my love to Evie.’
So it was that before the Padre really knew what was happening he was standing outside Mallards, having said his farewell and collected his hat from the hall table on the way, conscious not only that he had failed dismally in his appointed task but also that he had acquired a very tricky problem to boot. In fact, feeling rather like the hero of A History of Mr Polly, who goes to propose marriage to a lady only to end up proposing, largely by accident, to her sister instead.
Added to the growing realisation that he had failed in his mission was a sinking feeling at the thought of having to explain this fact to Mrs Mapp-Flint. He decided to delay that unpleasant experience until tomorrow, by which time he might have been able to think of some way of sugaring the pill.
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It was not to be, however. Ahead of him suddenly hove into view the substantial female forms of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint and Godiva Plaistow. He cast a panic-stricken glance towards the opposite corner and calculated that even at his briskest walking pace it would be impossible to reach it before he would decently have to acknowledge their presence. Resignedly, he waited for them and raised his hat.
‘Mistress Mapp-Flint, and Mistress Plaistow, well met. Is it no’ a bonny morning?’
‘Good morning, Padre. Any news?’ Diva enquired brightly.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mapp said more determinedly, ‘any news?’
‘Nothing that comes immediately to mind,’ the Padre replied smoothly, his eyes darting up and down the street as though scanning automatically for a distressed parishioner in need of spiritual succour.
‘But surely you’ve just come from Mallards?’ Mapp countered at once.
‘Aye,’ the Padre responded noncommittally.
There was a silence, which carried with it a strong sense of dissatisfaction on the part of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint at the lack of substance which this simple monosyllable conveyed.
‘So what were you talking to Lucia about?’ demanded Mapp.
‘Really, Elizabeth!’ gasped Diva, clearly shocked.
‘Oh, just parish business, ye ken,’ the Padre temporised.
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint glanced from the Padre to Diva and back again. It really was most awkward having to interrogate the Padre about something to which Diva was not privy. She considered leaving the matter for now but inviting the Padre to tea, at which time she might subject him to an inquisition in a more leisurely manner. As she wavered, she spotted Irene Coles walking towards them from the end of the road. Seeing her window of opportunity rapidly collapsing, she decided to have at least one stab at the situation immediately.
‘But if you remember, Padre,’ she reminded him, fixing him with what she fondly imagined to be a sweet smile, ‘you went to see dear Lulu with a specific mission. Or so, at least, you told me when last we met.’ She turned the sweet smile upon Diva, who was looking understandably puzzled that Mapp should have known the Padre’s intentions better than he did himself.
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