Lucia Triumphant (6 page)

Elizabeth's countenance showed no emotion behind the fixed smile that was her defensive visor. ‘How thoughtful! Yet I shall never learn unless I do it myself. It's very sweet of you to offer, but I'm sure I can manage.'

‘
I insist!' cried the Major, thumping the table with his clenched fist. ‘No wife of mine will ever exhaust herself with hard physical labour. No, by God, not while there's breath in my body. Either I shall do my share of motoring or we will not stir from the house.'

Elizabeth leaned across the table and put her hand on his. ‘Very well then,' she said, ‘we shall see. But you must let me have some practice. Else how shall I be able to drive all the time when we get back?'

Major Benjy relaxed. The threat to his life had partly abated and he began to wonder what had so worried Elizabeth about staying in Tilling that she could allow herself to be overruled in this fashion. He wondered also whether it might not be possible, after all, to get that whisky-and-soda.

‘
So that's agreed,' continued Elizabeth gaily. ‘Now let's have our tea and discuss where we are to go. So glad you decided against having a glass of whisky, Benjy. Tea is so much better for you than spirits.'

Withers, the Mapp-Flints' long-suffering parlourmaid, brought in the tray and informed her mistress that Mrs. Pillson had telephoned while they had been out and would she call back as soon as she returned?

‘
Elizabetha mia!'
warbled the Mayor's voice, and even electrically transmitted it seemed to fill the room like a miasma.
‘Molto grazie
for returning my call
prestissimo.
Just a quick word to inform you that we've just had a Council meeting—how we miss your good judgement and common sense, dear!—and the Town Clerk thinks that the old ordinance can be brought up to date and that you are to receive an allowance of five pounds per annum towards the cost of petroleum and vehicle maintenance.'

Hairs began to rise on the back of Elizabeth's neck. Lucia was definitely up to something or other and she thanked her guardian angel for putting it into her mind to leave Tilling for a while.

‘
So thoughtful of you, dear. So typical of your sweet, generous nature, but I cannot in all honesty accept. It would be too wrong of me to take the rate-payers' money. Why, when I had the privilege to serve on Your Worship's Council, my policy was always economy, frugality and the ruthless control of waste. And besides, you over-praise me if you think that I intend to use my motor for civic business alone. Why, Benjy-boy and I have just now resolved on a motor-tour of Devonshire—' There was a loud bump at the other end of the wire and Elizabeth correctly deduced that Lucia had dropped the receiver.

‘
No!' Lucia exclaimed when she had recovered the instrument from the waste-paper basket, into which it had fallen. ‘How splendid! And you are entitled to a holiday if anyone is after your tireless efforts for the community and the strain of the recent elections. But not too long, mind. You know how much we rely on you even now, both in public and in private life.'

Lucia hung up the receiver, leaving Elizabeth at her end of the wire as stunned as she was herself. For if actual coals of fire had been heaped on Elizabeth's head rather than merely scriptural ones, she could not have been more astonished. As for Lucia, this unexpected stroke of luck made a rosy prospect almost blood-red.

‘
Better and better, Georgie,' she cried. ‘She's going away for a holiday.'

‘
No!' said he, echoing her reaction. ‘That's most unusual. What can she be up to now?'

‘
Let me think,' said Lucia, in mock contemplation. ‘Ah, I have it. She's going away to practise her driving where no one can see her and where she can bump into as many trees as she likes. Then she'll come sweeping back and impress us all with her virtuosity.'

‘
Why, of course!' cried Georgie. ‘That's the reason. How tar'some she'll be. Can't you dissuade her? Think of something for her to do as Mayoress?'

‘
That would be rather small-minded, don't you think? Let her go to Devonshire. It is a sparsely-populated district where there will be far less risk of her killing, or injuring anyone in the course of her studies. Meanwhile, we can proceed with the Tapestry without any fear of her malice. By the time she gets back, everyone will be so deeply involved in the project that even if she wished to disrupt it—and I think we sometimes overestimate her malice—she would not be able to. But I hope that she will be swept up in the general enthusiasm on her return—yes, and Benjy too. I am convinced that deep down they would be only too delighted to be part of a project that can only bring glory on the town we all love.'

Georgie remembered something about someone who addressed people as if they were public meetings. It would apply very well to his wife, he thought sadly. Nevertheless, from what he could gather, it seemed as if the Tapestry would soon be under way and he was glad of that.

‘
So we can start as soon as she goes?' he asked. ‘How thrilling!'

‘
I think so, dear. I have already got the shape of it in my mind, the outline, the narrative thrust—and I have been reading my source material very closely. Now, tell me what people think of the idea.'

Georgie saw that the pretence of green sealing-wax had been cast aside. ‘Oh, I didn't tell them about the Tapestry in case they told Elizabeth. I just hinted. I mentioned “the Normans” to them and told them to work it out for themselves. I don't think it was a terribly good clue.'

‘
Never mind, it will stimulate their minds and create a sense of expectation. What is that word the cinema people use? Subliminal. They will be thinking about history, Georgie, our mediaeval past, our heritage.'

‘
I've been thinking about that too. There's the riots and the plague and the infestation of rats in the reign of Queen Matilda. Apparently, they came ashore from some ships and ate all the corn in the granary.'

‘
Admirable,' said Lucia, with distaste. ‘But I think we might include some of the more cheerful episodes as well.'

She rose and went out to the garden-room, where her notes and sketches, and Georgie's own preliminary work, formed a thick pile of papers on her desk. It was a reassuring sight that seemed to promise her a world of future achievement. She ought to get down to the work of ordering and consolidating her material but she could not resist the temptation to fit in some additional episodes of an exceptionally charming nature that she had come across in an old guidebook. Certainly the project would not be lacking in scope. There were, at the last count, ninety-seven completed scenes and only a little exertion would be needed to fill up the round hundred. At the rate of one scene per worker per day, the project would soon be completed and ready to display. The only drawback, as far as she could see, was that this invigorating and enjoyable exercise would so soon be finished.

She looked out of the window at the darkened streets and considered how much the effect of that view upon her had changed in the last few days. To think that such an inspiring scene could have seemed to taunt her with lack of achievement! Now it was almost as if West Street were a triumphal route waiting for her conquering foot to take the first step towards that contentment which only comes with fulfillment of noble designs. She felt like some Classical heroine—but which one? There was sad Procne, who wove into a tapestry the history of Tereus' abominable crimes—that did not seem to strike the right note. Then she remembered patient Penelope, whose everlasting needlework had safeguarded her honour and found immortality in Homer's transcendent verse. That, she felt, was rather more like it.

Had she paused to consider the implications of that all too appropriate authority ....

 

 

The Mapp-Flints departed with great grinding of gears, waving of handkerchiefs and promises of postcards, and Lucia at last felt herself free to launch the great project. Norman fever had settled on Tilling and only the Mapp-Flints, with other things on their minds, had remained unaffected by it all. Everything connected with the Conqueror had been investigated to see if they could cast any light on Georgie's mystic utterances.

‘
I think it's something to do with the Norman Tower,' said Diva, as she took tea at the Vicarage. ‘It's the most Norman thing I can think of. Perhaps she's going to have it restored.'

‘
But it is in excellent repair as it is,' said Susan Wyse. ‘I am sure that our dear Lucia means something far more important, and besides, I do not see how we could participate in any programme of renovation of the Tower. On the whole, I think Mr. Georgie's clue had some subtler meaning. There is, after all, a direct line of descent from William the Conqueror to our present monarch. A Royal Visit, perhaps?'

‘
Then why did he say “the Normans”?' Diva persisted. ‘Why not the Tudors or the Stuarts?'

‘
I believe my dear Susan is on the right track,' said Mr. Wyse, ‘although I do not believe that she has arrived at the actual truth. Our English aristocracy, you must remember, is of Norman stock. The expression “the Normans” may therefore be a cunning periphrasis for “the nobility”, such is the subtlety of Mr. Pillson. Some connection with an exalted person or persons ....'

‘ '
Tes my opinion that our bonny Mayor has some historical project in her mind,' intoned the Padre. In truth, he had no notion what Mr. Georgie's remark could mean, but the linguistic possibilities of mediaeval vocabulary had excited him greatly. A copy of
The
Canterbury Tales
was open on his desk and beside it a small exercise-book in which he was noting down the most quaint and archaic of Chaucer's usages for possible inclusion in his own everyday speech.

‘
Well, we'll know soon enough,' said Evie. ‘I've invited Lucia and Georgie to tea and they've accepted. But how thrilling! I can't wait to find out what's going on—Norman Tower or Royal Visit or aristocratic whatever.' She did not include her husband's pet theory for it was by definition too ludicrous to be taken seriously.

The door-bell rang and soon the Pillsons had joined the company. Georgie was wearing a new pair of trousers made of linen and the colour of terra-cotta. When he had tried them on in his dressing-room they had seemed to be the very essence of the Riviera; walking round Church Square, however, he had suffered a sudden loss of confidence in them and had wanted to go home and change but Lucia had been impatient to make her revelation and had assured him that they were perfect. But since nobody now seemed to have noticed them, the whole thing seemed a trifle academic ....

‘
Padre! Evie dear! How kind of you. And so many dear friends all together in one place. No Elizabeth? But of course, they are on holiday. Such a curious time for a holiday, don't you think—the end of January—and especially for a motor-tour, with snow forecast. What it is to be young and carefree! So sorry to keep you all waiting for your tea but
mio caro sposo
and I were held up—official business—too tedious for words.' (Lucia had been at the Town Hall, but there had been nothing for her to do, as usual.)

‘
Now then, Your Worship,' demanded the Padre, ‘yon folk and I have a' been on tenterhooks tae learn just what it was your mon meant by “the Normans”. Ye'll pardon my bluntness but will ye no tell us the truth on't?'

Lucia laughed a silvery laugh and lightly slapped Georgie across the back of his hand. Georgie blushed until his face matched the colour of his trousers.

‘
Oo vewwy naughty
Georgino
to tell. Me never trust you with important secrets again. Fancy you tell on poor Lucia.'

‘
Me so sorry,' said Georgie, dutifully.

‘
Well, since you all seem to know about it already, I suppose I had better confirm your suspicions, for you have doubtless all worked it out for yourselves. Georgie, such an obvious hint! No challenge at all! It is but a wild hypothesis—a mere suggestion—and I do hope you will not be too harsh on me as you point out the flaws in it.'

Then, using gestures with which her looking-glass was now all too familiar, she outlined her plans for the Tapestry. Tea grew cold in the cup and melted butter congealed on the tops of patient muffins for no one remembered them; before the eyes and ears of the assembly, a Great Thing was unfolding, a
Kunstwerk,
a wonder, if not of the world, then at the very least of the south-east coast. And how nobly, how excitingly, how brilliantly did Lucia present her project! At times her voice was low and deep, grave and statesmanlike; then she would reach up a whole octave, her clear, bright voice conveying a message of hope and enthusiasm that seemed to come from a younger, less cynical world where all things were possible. To accompany her eloquence, she emphasised each finely made point with movements of her long, delicate fingers and never once did Evie Bartlett have occasion to fear for her porcelain cake-stand. All the while, she fixed her listeners with her piercing eyes, so that each in turn felt himself to be caught in the spotlight of Destiny. When she was done, and the great peroration had at last reached its inevitable conclusion, there was not one of the company assembled in the cosy room who would not have followed her to the ends of the earth.

As suddenly as it had come, the enchantment faded and their own, sensible, down-to-earth Lucia was before them again. ‘Only an idea, the fruit of a few moments' musing which I offer to you to see if you can make something of it. Evie, dear, might I possibly have some fresh tea? I have foolishly let mine go cold. How I do chatter on sometimes and how polite you are to bear with me!'