The Complete Mapp & Lucia (167 page)

“I wonder how much she paid for that,” said Elizabeth, tossing the foul sheet across to Benjy as they sat at breakfast. It fell on his poached egg, in which he had just made a major incision, and smeared yolk on the clean table-cloth. She took up the
Daily Mirror,
and there was the picture of Lucia standing between the Mayor and the Bishop. She took up the
Financial Gazette,
and Siriami had slumped another shilling.

It was not only Elizabeth who was ill-pleased with this sycophantic column. Georgie had ordered a copy, which he first skimmed swiftly for the name of Mr. G. Pillson: a more careful reading of it showed him that there was not the smallest allusion to his having played the pedals in the “Moonlight.” Rather mean of Lucia; she certainly ought to have mentioned that, for, indeed, without the pedals it would have been a very thin performance. “I don’t mind for myself,” thought Georgie, “for what good does it do me to have my name in a squalid provincial rag, but I’m afraid she’s getting grabby. She wants to have it all. She wants to be on the top with nobody else in sight. Her masterly arrangement of the Moonlight! Rubbish! She just played the triplets with one hand and the air with the other, while I did the bass on the pedals. And her family house! It’s been in her family (only she hasn’t got one) since April. Her Italian, too! And the Samian ware from her excavations! That’s a whopper. All she got from her excavations was three-quarters of an Apollinaris bottle. If she had asked my advice, I should have told her that it was wiser to let sleeping dogs lie!”… So instead of popping into Mallards and congratulating her on her marvellous press, Georgie went straight down to the High Street in a condition known as dudgeon. He saw the back of Lucia’s head in the Office, and almost hoped she would disregard Mammoncash’s advice and make some unwise investment.

There was a little group of friends at the corner, Diva and Elizabeth and Evie. They all hailed him: it was as if they were waiting for him, as indeed they were.

“Have you read it, Mr. Georgie?” asked Diva. (There was no need to specify what.) “Her family home,” interrupted Elizabeth musingly. “And this is my family market-basket. It came into my family when I bought it the day before yesterday and it’s one of my most cherished heirlooms. Did you
ever,
Mr. Georgie? It’s worse than her article about the Roman forum, in the potato-bed.”

“And scarcely a word about Kenneth,” interrupted Evie. “I always thought he was Vicar of Tilling—”

“No, dear, we live and learn when we come up against the
châtelaine
of Mallards,” said Elizabeth.

“After all, you and the Padre went to lunch, Evie,” said Diva who never let resentment entirely obliterate her sense of fairness. “But I think it’s so mean of her not to say that Mr. Georgie played the pedals for her. I enjoyed them much more than the triplets.”

“What I can’t understand is that she never mentioned the real thunderstorm,” said Elizabeth. “I expected her to say she’d ordered it. Surely she did, didn’t she? Such a beauty, too: she might well be prouder of it than of her hat.”

Georgie’s dudgeon began to evaporate in these withering blasts of satire. They were ungrateful. Only a few weeks ago Lucia had welded together the fragments of Tilling society, which had been smashed up in the first instance by the tipsiness of Benjy. Nobody could have done it except her, strawberry time would have gone by without those luscious and inexpensive teas and now they were all biting the hand that had caused them to be fed. It was bright green jealousy, just because none of them had ever had a line in any paper about their exploits, let alone a column. And who, after all, had spent a thousand pounds on an organ for Tilling, and got a Bishop to dedicate it, and ordered a thunderstorm, and asked them all to a garden party afterwards? They snatched at the benefits of their patroness, and then complained that they were being patronised. Of course her superior airs and her fibs could be maddening sometimes, but even if she did let a reporter think that she spoke Italian as naturally as English and had dug up Samian ware in her garden, it was “pretty Fanny’s way,” and they must put up with it. His really legitimate grievance about his beautiful pedalling vanished.

“Well, I thought it was a wonderful day,” he said. “She’s more on a pinnacle than ever. Oh, look: here she comes.”

Indeed she did, tripping gaily down the hill with a telegraph form in her hand.

“Buon giorno a tutti,”
she said. “Such a nuisance: my telephone is out of order and I must go to the post-office. A curious situation in dollars and francs. I’ve been puzzling over it.”

Stony faces and forced smiles met her. She tumbled to it at once, the clever creature.

“And how good of you all to have rallied round me,” she said, “and have made our little
festa
such a success. I was so anxious about it, but I needn’t have been with so many dear loyal friends to back me up. The Bishop was enchanted with Mallards, Elizabeth: of course I told him that I was only an interloper. And what sweet things he said to me about the Padre, Evie.”

Lucia racked her brain to invent something nice which he said about Diva. So, though Pat hadn’t been at the party, how immensely the Bishop admired her beautiful dog!

“And how about a little Bridge this afternoon?” she asked. “Shan’t invite you, Georgino: just a woman’s four. Yes and yes and yes? Capital! It’s so hot that we might play in the shelter in Elizabeth’s secret garden. Four o’clock then. Georgie, come to the stationer’s with me. I want you to help me choose a book. My dear, your pedalling yesterday! How enthusiastic the organist was about it.
Au reservoir,
everybody.

“Georgie, I must get a great big scrap-book,” she went on, “to paste my press notices into. They multiply so. That paragraph the other day about my
excavazioni,
and to-day a whole column, and the photograph in the
Daily Mirror.
It would be amusing perhaps, years hence, to turn over the pages and recall the past. I must get a handsome looking book, morocco, I think. How pleased all Tilling seems to be about yesterday.”

The holiday season came round with August, and, as usual, the householders of the Tilling social circle let their own houses, and went to live in smaller ones, thereby not only getting a change of environment, but making, instead of spending, money on their holiday, for they received a higher rent for the houses they quitted than they paid for the houses they took. The Mapp-Flints were the first to move: Elizabeth inserted an advertisement in the
Times
in order to save those monstrous fees of house agents and instantly got an enquiry from a most desirable tenant, no less than the widow of a Baronet. In view of her rank, Elizabeth asked for and obtained a higher rent than she had ever netted at Mallards, and, as on her honeymoon, she took a very small bungalow near the sea, deficient in plumbing, but otherwise highly salubrious, and as she touchingly remarked “so near the golf links for my Benjy-boy. He will be as happy as the day is long.” She was happy, too, for the rent she received for Grebe was five times what (after a little bargaining) she paid for this shack which would be so perfect for her Benjy-boy.

Her new tenant was interesting: she had forty-seven canaries, each in its own cage, and the noise of their pretty chirping could be heard if the wind was favourable a full quarter of a mile from the house. It was ascertained that she personally cleaned out all their cages every morning, which accounted for her not being seen in Tilling till after lunch. She then rode into the town on a tricycle and bought rape seed and groundsel in prodigious quantities. She had no dealings with the butcher, so it was speedily known, and thus was probably a vegetarian; and Diva, prowling round Grebe one Friday morning, saw her clad in a burnous, kneeling on a carpet in the garden and prostrating herself in an eastward position. It might therefore be inferred that she was a Mahommedan as well.

This was all very satisfactory, a titled lady, of such marked idiosyncrasies, was evidently a very promising addition to Tilling society, and Diva, not wishing to interrupt her devotions, went quietly away, greatly impressed, and called next day, meaning to follow up this formality with an invitation to a vegetarian lunch. But even as she waited at the front door a window directly above was thrown open, and a shrill voice shouted “Not at home. Ever.” So Diva took the tram out to the golf links, and told Elizabeth that her tenant was certainly a lunatic. Elizabeth was much disturbed, and spent an hour every afternoon for the next three days in hiding behind the horn-beam hedge at Grebe, spying upon her. Lucia thought that Diva’s odd appearance might have accounted for this chilling reception and called herself. Certainly nobody shouted at her, but nobody answered the bell and, after a while, pieces of groundsel rained down on her, probably from the same upper window… The Padre let the Vicarage for August and September, and took a bungalow close to the Mapp-Flints. He and Major Benjy played golf during the day and the four played hectic Bridge in the evening.

Diva at present had not succeeded in letting her house, even at a very modest rental, and so she remained in the High Street. One evening horrid fumes of smoke laden with soot came into her bathroom where she was refreshing herself before dinner, and she found that they came down the chimney from the kitchen of the house next door. The leakage in the flue was localized, and it appeared that Diva was responsible for it, since, for motives of economy, which seemed sound at the time, she had caused the overflow pipe from her cistern to be passed through it. The owner of the house next door most obligingly promised not to use his range till Diva had the damage to the flue repaired, but made shift with his gas-ring, since he was genuinely anxious not to suffocate her when she was washing. But Diva could not bring herself to spend nine pounds (a frightful sum) on the necessary work on the chimney, and for the next ten days took no further steps.

Then Irene found a tenant for her house, and took that of Diva’s neighbour. He explained to her that just at present, until Mrs. Plaistow repaired a faulty flue, the kitchen range could not be used, and suggested that Irene might put a little pressure on her, since this state of things had gone on for nearly a fortnight, and his repeated reminders had had no effect. So Irene put pressure, and on the very evening of the day she moved in, she and Lucy lit an enormous fire in her range, though the evening was hot, and waited to see what effect that would have. Diva happened to be again in her bath, musing over the terrible expense she would be put to: nine pounds meant the saving of five shillings a week for the best part of a year. These gloomy meditations were interrupted by volumes of acrid smoke pouring through the leak, and she sprang out of her bath, convinced that the house was on fire, and without drying herself she threw on her dressing-gown. She had left the bathroom door open: thick vapours followed her downstairs. She hastily dressed and with her servant and Paddy wildly barking at her heels flew into the High Street and hammered on Irene’s door.

Irene, flushed with stoking, came upstairs.

“So I’ve smoked you out,” she said. “Serve you right.”

“I believe my house is on fire,” cried Diva. “Never saw such smoke in my life.”

“Call the fire-engine then,” said Irene. “Goodbye: I must put some more damp wood on. And mind, I’ll keep that fire burning day and night, if I don’t get a wink of sleep, till you’ve had that flue repaired.”

“Please, please,” cried Diva in agony. “No more damp wood, I beg. I promise. It shall be done to-morrow.”

“Well, apologise for being such a damned nuisance,” said Irene. “You’ve made me and Lucy roast ourselves over the fire. Not to mention the expense of the firing.”

“Yes. I apologise. Anything!” wailed Diva. “And I shall have to re-paper my bathroom. Kippered.”

“Your own fault. Did you imagine I was going to live on a gas-ring, because you wouldn’t have your chimney repaired?”

Then Diva got a tenant in spite of the kippered bathroom, and moved to a dilapidated hovel close beside the railway line, which she got for half the rent which she received for her house. Passing trains shook its crazy walls and their whistlings woke her at five in the morning, but its cheapness gilded these inconveniences, and she declared it was delightful to be awakened betimes on these August days. The Wyses went out to Capri to spend a month with the Faragliones, and so now the whole of the Tilling circle, with the exception of Georgie and Lucia, were having change and holiday to the great advantage of their purses. They alone remained in their adjoining abodes and saw almost as much of each other as during those weeks when Georgie was having shingles and growing his beard in hiding at Grebe. Lucia gave her mornings to finance and the masterpieces of the Greek tragedians, and in this piping weather recuperated herself with a siesta after lunch. Then in the evening coolness they motored and sketched or walked over the field-paths of the marsh, dined together and had orgies of Mozartino. All the time (even during her siesta) Lucia’s head was as full of plans as an egg of meat, and she treated Georgie to spoonfuls of it.

They were approaching the town on one such evening from the south. The new road, now finished, curved round the bottom of the hill on which the town stood: above it was a bare bank with tufts of coarse grass rising to the line of the ancient wall.

Lucia stood with her head on one side regarding it.

“An ugly patch,” she said. “It offends the eye, Georgie. It is not in harmony with the mellow brick of the wall. It should be planted. I seem to see it covered with almond trees; those late flowering ones. Pink blossom, a foam of pink blossom for
la bella Primavera.
I estimate that it would require at least fifty young trees. I shall certainly offer to give them to the town and see to them being put in.”

“That would look lovely,” said Georgie.