Lucia Triumphant (33 page)

‘
I believe Mr. Georgie has somewhat to ask ye, Mistress Mapp-Flint. Go on, man. Speak.'

Georgie coughed nervously and asked Elizabeth if she would like to come to tea tomorrow. Elizabeth pondered awhile under cover of flicking through her pocket-diary, for there was something strange about all this; but she could not see any reason why she should not accept. So she thanked Georgie and Georgie thanked her again. Then, quite suddenly, everybody seemed to notice how late it was, and soon only Elizabeth and Benjy were left. So, although it was still quite early, Elizabeth said goodbye to the Wyses and she and the Major started on the long journey back to Grebe.

‘
Something very odd is going on,' said Elizabeth, as they turned left in front of Mallards and went down West Street. ‘And I have no idea what it can be.'

‘
Same here, old girl,' said the Major innocently.

As soon as they were out of sight, shadowy forms began to creep stealthily towards the door of Starling Cottage. At first, an observer would have taken them for the smugglers and pirates whose spirits haunted Porpoise Street. But, as the door opened and light poured through it, they could be plainly recognised as Georgie and the Bartletts, followed by Diva and Irene. They went into the house and the door closed behind them.

 

‘
Buongiorno
,
Georgino
!' cried Lucia, as she stepped into the house that she had possibly renounced for ever. ‘Ah, how pleasant to be back in dear Tilling again after my holiday.'

Now it was in Georgie's mind to suggest that it had not been a holiday at all and to have a serious talk with her; but he remembered the elephant and decided against it. One cannot talk seriously with an elephant.

‘
And how was dear Riseholme?' he therefore cried as lightly as possible. ‘How I wish I could have come with you.'

‘
As beautiful as ever, except that dear Adele has planted parsley—think of it, Georgie, parsley—in Perdita's garden and decorated Midsummer Night's Dream in salmon-pink silk and Art Deco. How does
The
Rubaiyat
put it,
caro?

 

They say the lion and the leopard keep

The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep.

 

Or some such words. And poor Daisy has become quite eccentric with no one to keep her in order—I believe that dear Adele and Colonel Cresswell quite encourage her. She could speak of nothing but vegetarianism, and when I went to dinner with her what do you think we had? Barley-bread and rye-bread and millet cakes and Malvern water to drink—for she will not drink the water from the tap, which she says is full of bacteria. She declared over and over again that she would not allow a living thing to be killed for her benefit—she was wearing tennis-shoes, for leather is quite forsworn—and when I told her, as gently as possible, that cereal plants and flax are living things too, and all the vegetable kingdom, come to that, she grew quite distraught. I had hoped that my time in Riseholme might have had some lasting effect, but there.
Alles vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichnis,
as Goethe so succinctly puts it.'

After a week without her, Georgie found that this burst of concentrated Lucia
(The Rubaiyat,
vegetarianism
and
Goethe) quite disoriented him, like a waft of powerful gas, and he did not know what to say. But there was no need for him to say anything, and scarcely any opportunity.

‘
And now to business, Georgie. So many letters. Who is this?—the paper-knife, dear, if you please. Thank you. Ah, Signor Cortese, no less—you remember him, Georgie, his glorious
Lucretia,
first sung in your little cottage at Riseholme.'

Lucia's brow clouded over and Georgie guessed that Signor Cortese, who was Italian, and who knew little English, had written his letter to Lucia in
la bella lingua,
for Lucia, after staring at the letter for a while, put it back in its envelope, said ‘Dear Signor Cortese!' and moved on to the next one.

‘
From Miss Olga Bracely, Georgie,' she said, and fixed him with her bright, piercing eye. Perhaps she had guessed everything—how Olga had rounded up all these distinguished people like a sheepdog, and had driven them into Lucia's fold—or perhaps not. ‘I am sure we shall be able to find something for dear Olga to do. In fact, if she can spare the time, I think we ought to ask her to join our Festival Committee. What do you say, dear? Such a capable, influential woman.'

What Georgie said can be guessed and Lucia turned to the rest of her letters and called for strong black coffee. Georgie, feeling drained, tottered into the drawing-room. Then he took something from his waistcoat pocket and hugged it to his bosom.

Lucia stayed in the telephone-room until luncheon, and throughout the meal remained blithe and light-hearted, chattering away gaily in a virtually incomprehensible mixture of Italian and baby-talk. For a moment, Georgie believed that she had forgotten all about the Tapestry curtains and her tempestuous departure from Tilling; but an elephant never forgets. Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, she put down her fork and looked Georgie in the eye.

‘
That reminds me,' she said (they had been talking about Shakespeare). ‘We shall need some new curtains for the garden-room. Something bright and cheerful, now that summer is upon us.'

After lunch, Georgie was thoroughly briefed on the Festival, and the list of names that Lucia read out to him was quite staggering. Omnipotent as Olga was, she could not have mobilised so many legions of the illustrious. The project had started to gather its own momentum; Great One had mentioned it to Great One, suggesting that it might be rather fun, and no one had wanted to be left out. So thrilling was the prospect that Georgie lost all track of time, and it was only when he glanced out of the garden-room window and saw a large number of people standing outside that he remembered that his own particular triumph was about to take place. Fortunately, Lucia had her back to the window and had not seen. But where was Elizabeth? Had Benjy's nerve failed him, and had he betrayed the secret? But there she was, striding up the hill, and Major Benjy behind her, looking extremely nervous. It was time.

‘
Excuse me for a moment, Lucia,' said Georgie, and he slipped from the room. From the drawer of the desk in the telephone-room he took Lucia's notebook; then he opened the front-door and descended the steps. Everyone was there; the Padre and wee wifie, Diva, in tea-rose georgette, with Paddy on a chain, Susan and Algernon Wyse, on foot, and Susan hedged about with sables, quaint Irene, carrying something in a brown paper-bag; and the Mapp-Flints, he trying vainly to hide behind Diva, she on the point of flight. But Irene saw her and drew from its paper-bag the dinner-bell.

‘
Stay right there, de Map,' she cried, ‘or I'll follow you all the way back to Grebe.'

‘
Is everyone here?' cried Georgie. ‘Very well, then. Ring the bell, please, Miss Coles.'

Irene rang her bell and cried out ‘Oyez, oyez!'

Elizabeth, seeing her chance, tried to edge away, but Lucy, Irene's gigantic maid, blocked her path and she knew that escape was impossible. Georgie cleared his throat and began to read from the notebook.

‘
If the Mayor should refuse,' he tried to say, but a lump the size of a tennis-ball had found its way into his throat and he stopped.

‘
You're useless,' said Irene. ‘Give it to me!'

She snatched the book from his hand and rang the bell again. ‘Listen, people of Tilling,' she sang out in a loud, carrying voice. ‘Extract from the Ancient Duties and Privileges of the Mayors of Tilling, used thereof from time out of mind, which Men's mind cannot think the—what's that word? Oh, yes—contrary. If the Mayor should refuse, and if the Mayor, so chosen and elected ....'

 

Lucia, hearing the bell, looked round and saw what looked like a mob assembled in the street. At first, thoughts of Bolshevism and Revolution filled her mind, then she recognised their faces. Georgie and Irene, and Elizabeth looking very bad-tempered, and all her friends—and what was Irene reading?

‘
... All the whole commons together shall go sit beneath her house and entreat until such time as she come forth ....'

For a moment she did not understand; then she understood. Everyone was calling out ‘Lucia!' or ‘Come forth!' Even Elizabeth, with a face like a thunder-cloud, managed to shriek, ‘Do come forth, you sweet Mayor!' while Major Benjy was roaring like a lion and waving his hat. She rose and left the room.

‘
Now where's she gone?' gasped Georgie, hoarse with shouting. ‘It's at least three minutes since she left the garden-room.'

‘
Shout louder!' yelled Irene. ‘Come on, Mapp. Shout!' So they shouted.

 

Lucia called Grosvenor and ordered tea and cakes for ten.

‘
Very good, madam,' said Grosvenor impassively. ‘Oh and, madam, your chain is not quite straight.'

‘
Thank you, Grosvenor,' said Lucia, and adjusted it slightly.

She put her hand on the door handle and observed that the fingers trembled slightly. She frowned, and the trembling stopped. She opened the door and stepped out, her Mayoral robes sweeping the ground beneath her, the feather in her hat touching the lintel. A deafening cheer greeted her and, as the sun, emerging from behind a cloud, cast a sparkling light upon the Mayoral chain, she raised her hand for silence.

‘
You dear people,' she said. ‘How you all work me!'

 

 

 

Tom Holt
was born in 1961 in London, England.

His first book,
Poems By Tom Holt
, was published when he was twelve years old. While he was still a student at Oxford he wrote two sequels to E.F. Benson's
Lucia
series. After an undistinguished seven-year stint as a lawyer, he became a full-time writer in 1995 and has published over thirty novels.

Tom lives with his wife and daughter in the west of England. As well as writing, he raises pigs and pedigree Dexter cattle.