Au Reservoir (16 page)

‘What’s what?’

‘The thing, this surprise attack. What is it?’

He looked startled suddenly, and said ‘Ah’ again, but this time in a very different tone of voice. The beam faded from his wife’s face more quickly than it had arrived.

‘I see,’ she said coldly. ‘There was me thinking you were being clever, and all the time you were just building my hopes up only to dash them.’

She rang the bell for Withers in a particularly vicious fashion and swept majestically out of the room.

The Major sat crestfallen with his newspaper raised halfway.

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something, old thing,’ he shouted hopefully after her departing figure.

She turned on her heel and put her clearly exasperated head back round the door.

‘Oh, why don’t you go and play golf?’ she demanded.

A
s fate would have it, Lucia and Georgie went up to town for a few days before the news of her response to the new invitation broke in Tilling, and so the morning news round was left guessing at the likely outcome of the Tenterden fête saga.

The pair were of course much in demand in and around the opera house at Covent Garden, meeting designers and architects, and being shown plans and numbers with lots of noughts on the end which Georgie found rather frightening but with which Lucia seemed quite comfortable. So Georgie said ‘Quite’ and ‘Parfect’ at regular intervals, and wondered when he could decently get away to Jermyn Street to look at silk ties and buckskin boots. He had never realised just how tiring the life of a philanthropist and patron of the arts could be.

Both were invited to a very grand dinner party with David Webster and Norman Brook at the Café Royal. Lucia found herself seated next to a cabinet minister, but of who he was and what his responsibilities might be she remained entirely ignorant since he spoke in an impenetrable accent which, she learned later, was in common usage in the north-east of England; at the time she wondered if he might be confused about her nationality and therefore attempting to communicate with her in Serbo-Croat.

So she took the lead, and ventured safely guarded opinions on some of the issues of the day. She was in favour of the nationalisation of the railways, though making it clear that such approval was predicated on the Railways Board in future taking a more enlightened attitude towards the provision of express services to picturesque towns on the south coast. She paused meaningfully at this juncture but was disappointed to see that he did not produce a notebook and pencil to write down the salient points of her carefully argued case for a daily Tilling Special.

Of the Malayan Emergency she was also broadly supportive, since she understood that some Malayans were actually communist and that would never do. Also it was interfering with the supply of rubber, and surely rubber was very useful, wasn’t it? Again she paused, but the minister merely nodded vaguely and consumed the last of his soup rather noisily. Clearly his portfolio was neither transport nor trade.

Becoming more desperate in her choice of subject, she wandered into the wisdom of putting monkeys on rockets, on which she was broadly negative, for one never knew where such things might lead. The minster finished his soup and then said something which sounded apologetic about having to voot, rose and left the restaurant. It seemed that this was not unexpected, since another gentleman departed at the same time, the waiters took away their chairs and place settings, and everyone moved a little closer together, so that Lucia now found herself sitting next to the Cabinet Secretary.

‘Really, Mr Brook, how busy all you important people in government must be,’ she commented. ‘Why, the minister had no sooner finished his soup than he said he had to scoot and simply disappeared.’

‘There is a division in the House, I’m afraid,’ he replied gravely. ‘A common problem when dining with politicians. Though I’m surprised the Secretary of State for War should use a word like “scoot”. It doesn’t sound his usual style at all.’

‘Your charm must have softened him up, Lucia,’ Olga suggested smilingly. ‘Jack Lawson can be a bit of a curmudgeon usually.’

‘I think he’s an old style communist essentially,’ Webster cut in. ‘I remember him making a real hellfire speech before the war about the exploitation of native labour – in Malaya, I believe.’

Lucia experienced a momentary pang of concern and decided that a change of subject would be in order.

‘I was expounding my plans for a more efficient railway network,’ she explained, as the waiters served the fish. ‘I am glad to say that the Secretary of State seemed very impressed by my arguments for a daily Tilling Express. Perhaps I will follow up with a letter.’

She nodded thoughtfully and began to ease her turbot off the bone. Brook flashed a somewhat desperate glance to Olga, which Georgie spotted.

‘What I don’t understand,’ he cut in, changing the subject himself, ‘is why Mr Lawson had to dash off to vote in the House. Why, it’s nearly ten o’clock. Surely Parliament doesn’t sit at night, does it?’

‘Of course it does, Georgie,’ Lucia said severely. ‘I have always assumed that it’s so that all the Members of Parliament can do their real jobs during the day.’

There was a sudden silence, which Georgie attempted to fill.

‘Why, Lucia!’ he exclaimed. ‘How very naughty you are – but you must remember that not everyone is used to your brilliant bon mots.’

‘
Mots justes
, perhaps?’ Webster mused, glancing mischievously at Brook.

‘You are
all
being very naughty,’ Olga said with mock-severity. ‘Now let’s change the subject and stop embarrassing poor Norman.’

The next morning Lucia met Irene Coles, who was travelling up to London to see an exhibition of very progressive paintings by one of her fellow Royal Academicians. Irene, needless to say, was ecstatic at the prospect of being alone with her beloved Lucia for a few hours, while Olga and Georgie used the opportunity to take morning coffee at the Ritz, a favourite launching pad for Georgie’s forays into the dizzy world of Jermyn Street.

He was already looking forward to his planned visits. Since his brief acquaintance with King Zog of Albania, Georgie had always had his cigarettes made by hand in St James’s to his own special blend, which consisted mostly of Turkish tobacco. He was running low and wanted to order some more. King Zog, now sadly king no longer, was living in exile in Egypt, according to his occasional letters, and had expressed the hope that his gifts of rather more exotic smoking material might shortly resume.

An appointment to review the progress of Georgie’s recently ordered boots would follow, then a visit to his tailor, who had done wonders in sourcing some Prince of Wales check and who had hinted discreetly that vulgar considerations, such as ration cards and clothing vouchers, were hardly something with which gentlemen about town could reasonably be expected to concern themselves.

Finally, a short walk to Old Bond Street would take him to Taylor’s, where he would spend a pleasant twenty minutes sniffing fragrances while they mixed him a bottle of cologne to take home and put in his
atomiseur
. Again, he had been heavily influenced by King Zog in such matters, and normally tended towards something citrusy on a base of musk and sandalwood. Lucia had originally taken to wrinkling her nose ostentatiously whenever he trailed clouds of perfume in fine style around Mallards, but he had persisted and she had finally given up on the issue after only a couple of years.

‘Well, that was a narrow squeak last night,’ Olga was saying.

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ Georgie responded. ‘Thank goodness the politicians had left. Do you think it did any harm?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ she replied, ‘particularly after you passed it off so cleverly. Hopefully everyone will just think it was a particularly biting witticism.’

‘Yes,’ said he thoughtfully. ‘Of course, the real irony is that it was, if only she had meant it to be one.’

They both laughed, though Georgie had to stop almost at once as his hand started to shake, dropping macaroon crumbs on his trousers, which would never do. He brushed at them carefully, but to his horror one of them smudged slightly and he said ‘Tarsome’ really rather sharply.

‘It might be an idea for you to get her back to Tilling as soon as possible, though,’ she continued. ‘Particularly as I want to see Noël tomorrow and it would be very difficult to do that if she was still in town. Either I’d have to take her with me, which would be a disaster – not least because Noël would rightly think I’d set up an ambush – or attempt to hide where I was going and who I was seeing.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Georgie concurred, ‘and of course if she found out somehow, such as seeing another wretched photo in the newspapers or something, she’d go all sniffy and not talk to anyone.’

‘Why are people so difficult?’ Olga enquired of nobody in particular. ‘The world would be so uncomplicated if only it had no people in it.’

‘There’s a quote there somewhere, isn’t there?’ he asked absently. ‘
The Tempest
or something, I think.’

Olga made no reply but lit a cigarette instead.

‘But just think,’ Georgie pointed out. ‘If there were no people, then there would be nobody to listen to you singing. Think how much pleasure they would all miss out on.’

‘You are an angel,’ she said warmly and, reaching across impetuously, squeezed his arm. He flushed and mumbled something.

Georgie arrived back at the Ritz encumbered with various expensively packaged items, all of which were whisked away solicitously with a little bow by a flunkey, beckoned hither with a barely perceptible raising of one eyebrow by the maitre d’hôtel. As he walked towards the restaurant he glanced in the silvered mirror which dominated the entrance hall, noticed that neither of his cufflinks was visible and surreptitiously tugged at each shirt sleeve in turn, thus restoring his sartorial perfection.

He heard Olga’s loud laugh as he entered the restaurant and saw that she was already seated with Lucia and Quaint Irene. Lucia was trying to wince, and at the same time to convey that she was attempting not to. Despite ample practice over the years, the effect was still not entirely convincing.

‘
Caro mio
,’ she greeted him graciously, ‘have you had a pleasant morning? All your errands duly run, I trust?’

‘Oh yes, yes thank you,’ he gushed as he sat down. ‘Well, all except my new boots anyway, and they should be ready tomorrow. I can pick them up at the same time as my cigarettes.’

‘Georgie-Porgie, you old rogue,’ Irene cried, having been occupied until now in draining her cocktail. ‘What have you been up to, then? Kissing the girls and making them cry, I’ll be bound. Better keep an eye out for press photographers, eh?’

‘Oh, really,’ he protested weakly, feeling, and not for the first time, that Irene should not be allowed out in polite society. Glancing around at neighbouring tables, however, he noticed that, far from looking scandalised, people were smiling indulgently, even as Olga went off into another great hoot of laughter. Clearly, she had been recognised.

‘Tell me about the paintings,’ he proffered as he took up the menu.

‘Vigorous!’ Lucia pronounced firmly. ‘Such colour, Georgie, such strength of purpose! If only you could have seen them.’

Since Lucia’s views on abstract art were well known to Georgie, he glanced at her in some surprise.

‘Angel!’ Irene commented delightedly. ‘I knew you’d like them. How very like you!’

Georgie felt himself dangerously close to harrumphing in Major Mapp-Flint fashion, suppressed the temptation and decided to have the potted shrimps followed by duck à l’orange.

‘Who was the artist?’ Olga enquired.

‘Oh, old Vic Pasmore,’ Irene replied. Then, looking around the table and seeing that this did not convey as much to the others as she had hoped, ‘You remember, he was put in prison during the war for being a conscientious objector. You must have read about it.’

They all made polite noises.

‘He used to do a lot of daubs of the Thames and boring old stuff like that,’ she went on, ‘but Ben Nicholson has got him doing abstracts now, and jolly good they are too.’

Georgie, who rather liked paintings of the Thames, took up the wine list and considered the rival attractions of a Montrachet and a Sancerre. Since that dreadful little man had finally gone too far and invaded Poland, hock seemed so unpatriotic. Unsurprisingly, he chose the Montrachet, for Sauvignon Blanc at lunchtime tended to give him indigestion in the afternoon, while Chardonnay merely made him naughtily spendthrift in shirt-makers.

As he pointed at the wine the sommelier nodded approvingly in that manner reserved for showing approbation for a discerning gentleman who has just chosen the most expensive wine on the list.

‘What are your plans for the afternoon, Lucia?’ he asked idly.

‘Alas,’ she responded with a heavy sigh, ‘I shall visit my stockbrokers in the City, but after that I fear I must return to Tilling.’

‘Oh no, surely not!’ they all cried in unison.

She waved a gentle hand in front of her face, smiling sweetly at their natural dismay.

‘Indeed, it is so,’ she confirmed. ‘You may have forgotten that I am Chairman of the Women in Tilling’s Care Homes committee, and it meets tomorrow morning.’

WITCH had been founded by Elizabeth Mapp-Flint during the war to provide comforts for wounded soldiers at convalescent homes in the area. Noting the unfortunate acronym which its name produced, Irene had promptly dubbed it ‘Mapp’s coven’. In circumstances that remained obscure, Mapp had resigned from the movement after some pots of her marrow jam were returned by one of the care homes in question as inedible, under cover of a note which did less than justice to the donor’s charitable instincts. Irene, who was then on the committee herself, had suggested responding to explain that the jam was widely known to be unfit for human consumption but had actually been intended for use as a wound dressing. It was believed by those who knew about such things that the suggestion had immediately preceded Mrs Mapp-Flint’s resignation.