The Complete Mapp & Lucia (179 page)

Irene was holding herself in, trembling slightly with the effort.

Elizabeth continued, still wistfully.

“A lovely little talk,” she said, “and then there was Mr. Georgie in the garden, and he came across the lawn to me with such questioning eyes, for I think he guessed what we had been talking about—”

Irene could contain herself no longer. She gave one maniac scream.

“Mapp, you make me sick,” she cried. “I believe Lucia has asked you to be Mayoress, poor misguided darling, but it didn’t happen like that. It isn’t true, Mapp. You’ve been longing to be Mayoress: you’ve been losing weight, not a bad thing either, with anxiety. You asked her: you implored her. I am not arguing with you, I am telling you… Hullo, here they both come. It will be pretty to see their gratitude to you. Don’t go, Mapp.”

Elizabeth rose. Dignity prevented her from making any reply to these gutter-snipe observations. She did it very well. She paused to kiss her hand to the approaching Lucia, and walked away without hurrying. But once round the corner into the High Street, she, like Foljambe, “almost ran”.

Irene hailed Lucia.

“Come and talk for a minute, darling,” she said. “First, is it all too true, Mayoress Mapp, I mean? I see it is. You had far better have chosen me or Lucy. And what a liar she is! Thank God I told her so. She told me that you had at last swallowed your pride, and asked her—”

“What?” cried Lucia.

“Just that; and that she felt it was her duty to help you.”

Lucia, though trembling with indignation, was magnificent.

“Poor thing!” she said. “Like all habitual liars, she deceives herself far more often than she deceives others.”

“But aren’t you going to
do
anything?” asked Irene, dancing wild fandangoes on the doorstep. “Not tell her she’s a liar? Or, even better, tell her you never asked her to be Mayoress at all! Why not? There was no one there but you and she.”

“Dear Irene, you wouldn’t want me to lower myself to her level?”

“Well, for once it wouldn’t be a bad thing. You can become lofty again immediately afterwards. But I’ll develop the snap-shot I made of her, and send it to the press as a photograph of our new Mayoress.”

Within an hour the news was stale. But the question of how the offer was made and accepted was still interesting, and fresh coins appeared from Elizabeth’s mint: Lucia, it appeared had said “Beloved friend, I could never have undertaken my duties without your support” or words to that effect, and Georgie had kissed the hand of the Mayoress Elect. No repudiation of such sensational pieces came from head-quarters and they passed into a sort of doubtful currency. Lucia merely shrugged her shoulders, and said that her position forbade her directly to defend herself. This was thought a little excessive; she was not actually of Royal blood. A brief tranquillity followed, as when a kettle, tumultuously boiling, is put on the hob to cool off, and the
Hampshire Argus
merely stated that Mrs. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint (née Mapp) would be Mayoress of Tilling for the ensuing year.

Next week the kettle began to lift its lid again, for in the same paper there appeared a remarkable photograph of the Mayoress. She was standing on one foot, as if skating, with the other poised in the air behind her. Her face wore a beckoning smile, and one arm was stretched out in front of her in eager solicitation. Something seemed bound to happen. It did.

Diva by this time had furnished her tea-room, and was giving dress-rehearsals, serving tea herself to a few friends and then sitting down with them, very hot and thirsty. To-day Georgie and Evie were being entertained, and the Padre was expected. Evie did not know why he was late: he had been out in the parish all day, and she had not seen him since after breakfast.

“Nothing like rehearsals to get things working smoothly,” said Diva, pouring her tea into her saucer and blowing on it. “There are two jams, Mr. Georgie, thick and clear, or is that soup?”

“They’re both beautifully clear,” said Georgie politely, “and such hot, crisp toast.”

“There should have been pastry-fingers as well,” said Diva, “but they wouldn’t rise.”

“Tar’some things,” said Georgie with his mouth full.

“Stuck to the tin and burned,” replied Diva. “You must imagine them here even for a shilling tea. And cream for eighteenpenny teas with potted meat sandwiches. Choice of China or Indian. Tables for four can be reserved, but not for less… Ah, here’s the Padre. Have a nice cup of tea, Padre, after all those funerals and baptisms.”

“Sorry I’m late, Mistress Plaistow,” said he, “and I’ve a bit o’ news, and what d’ye think that’ll be about? Shall I tease you, as Mistress Mapp-Flint says?”

“You won’t tease me,” said Georgie, “because I know it’s about that picture of Elizabeth in the
Hampshire Argus.
And I can tell you at once that Lucia knew nothing about it, whatever Elizabeth may say, till she saw it in the paper. Nothing whatever, except that Irene had taken a snap-shot of her.”

“Well, then, you know nowt o’ my news. I was sitting in the club for a bitty, towards noon, when in came Major Benjy, and picked up the copy of the
Hampshire Argus
where was the portrait of his guid wife. I heard a sort o’ gobbling turkey-cock noise and there he was, purple in the face, wi’ heathen expressions streaming from him like torrents o’ spring. Out he rushed with the paper in his hand—club-property, mind you, and not his at all—and I saw him pelting down the road to Grebe.”

“No!” cried Diva.

“Yes, Mistress Plaistow. A bit later as I was doing my parish visiting, I saw the Major again with the famous cane riding-whip in his hand, with which, we’ve all heard often enough, he hit the Indian tiger in the face while he snatched his gun to shoot him. ‘No one’s going to insult my wife, while I’m above ground,’ he roared out, and popped into the office o’ the
Hampshire Argus.”

“Gracious! What a crisis!” squeaked Evie.

“And that’s but the commencement, mem! The rest I’ve heard from the new Editor, Mr. McConnell, who took over not a week ago. Up came a message to him that Major Mapp-Flint would like to see him at once. He was engaged, but said he’d see the Major in a quarter of an hour, and to pass the time wouldn’t the Major have a drink. Sure he would, and sure he’d have another when he’d made short work of the first, and, to judge by the bottle, McConnell guessed he’d had a third, but he couldn’t say for certain. Be that as it may, when he was ready to see the Major, either the Major had forgotten what he’d come about, or thought he’d be more prudent not to be so savage, for a big man is McConnell, a very big man indeed, and the Major was most affable, and said he’d just looked in to pay a call on the newcomer.”

“Well, that was a come-down,” ejaculated Georgie.

“And further to come down yet,” said the Padre, “for they had another drink together, and the poor Major’s mind must have got in a fair jumble. He’d come out, ye see, to give the man a thrashing, and instead they’d got very pleasant together, and now he began talking about bygones being bygones. That as yet was Hebrew-Greek to McConnell, for it was the Art-Editor who’d been responsible for the picture of the Mayoress and McConnell had only just glanced at it, thinking there were some queer Mayoresses in Hampshire, and then, oh, dear me, if the Major didn’t ask him to step round and have a bit of luncheon with him, and as for the riding-whip it went clean out of his head and he left it in the waiting-room at the office. There was Mistress Elizabeth when they got to Grebe, looking out o’ the parlour window and waiting to see her brave Benjy come marching back with the riding-whip shewing a bit of wear and tear, and instead there was the Major with no riding-whip at all, arm in arm with a total stranger saying as how this was his good friend Mr. McConnell, whom he’d brought to take pot-luck with them. Dear, oh dear, what wunnerful things happen in Tilling, and I’ll have a look at that red conserve.”

“Take it all,” cried Diva. “And did they have lunch?”

“They did that,” said the Padre, “though a sorry one it was. It soon came out that Mr. McConnell was the Editor of the
Argus,
and then indeed there was a terrifying glint in the lady’s eye. He made a hop and a skip of it when the collation was done, leaving the twa together, and he told me about it a’ when I met him half an hour ago and ‘twas that made me a bit late, for that’s the kind of tale ye can’t leave in the middle. God knows what’ll happen now, and the famous riding-whip somewhere in the newspaper office.”

The door-bell had rung while this epic was being related, but nobody noticed it. Now it was ringing again, a long, uninterrupted tinkle, and Diva rose.

“Shan’t be a second,” she said. “Don’t discuss it too much till I get back.”

She hurried out.

“It must be Elizabeth herself,” she thought excitedly. “Nobody else rings like that. Using up such a lot of current, instead of just dabbing now and then.”

She opened the door. Elizabeth was on the threshold smiling brilliantly. She carried in her hand the historic riding-whip. Quite unmistakable.

“Dear one!” she said. “May I pop in for a minute. Not seen you for so long.”

Diva overlooked the fact that they had had a nice chat this morning in the High Street, for there was a good chance of hearing more. She abounded in cordiality.

“Do come in,” she said. “Lovely to see you after all this long time. Tea going on. A few friends.”

Elizabeth sidled into the tea-room: the door was narrow for a big woman.

“Evie dearest! Mr. Georgie! Padre!” she saluted. “How de do everybody. How cosy! Yes, Indian, please, Diva.”

She laid the whip down by the corner of the fireplace. She beamed with geniality. What turn could this humiliating incident have taken, everybody wondered, to make her so jocund and gay? In sheer absorption of constructive thought the Padre helped himself to another dollop of red jam and ate it with his teaspoon. Clearly she had reclaimed the riding-whip from the
Argus
office but what next? Had she administered to Benjy the chastisement he had feared to inflict on another? Meantime, as puzzled eyes sought each other in perplexity, she poured forth compliments.

“What a banquet, Diva!” she exclaimed. “What a pretty tablecloth! If this is the sort of tea you will offer us when you open, I shan’t be found at home often. I suppose you’ll charge two shillings at least, and even then you’ll be turning people away.”

Diva recalled herself from her speculations.

“No: this will be only a shilling tea,” she said, “and usually there’ll be pastry as well.”

“Fancy! And so beautifully served. So dainty. Lovely flowers on the table. Quite like having tea in the garden with no earwigs… I had an unexpected guest to lunch to-day.”

Cataleptic rigidity seized the entire company.

“Such a pleasant fellow,” continued Elizabeth. “Mr. McConnell, the new Editor of the
Argus.
Benjy paid a morning call on him at the office and brought him home. He left his tiger-riding-whip there, the forgetful boy, so I went and reclaimed it. Such a big man: Benjy looked like a child beside him.”

Elizabeth sipped her tea. The rigidity persisted.

“I never by any chance see the
Hampshire Argus,”
she said. “Not set eyes on it for years, for it used to be very dull. All advertisements. But with Mr. McConnell at the helm, I must take it in. He seemed so intelligent.”

Imperceptibly the rigidity relaxed, as keen brains dissected the situation… Elizabeth had sent her husband out to chastise McConnell for publishing this insulting caricature of herself. He had returned, rather tipsy, bringing the victim to lunch. Should the true version of what had happened become current, she would find herself in a very humiliating position with a craven husband and a monstrous travesty unavenged. But her version was brilliant. She was unaware that the
Argus
had contained any caricature of her, and Benjy had brought his friend to lunch. A perfect story, to the truth of which, no doubt, Benjy would perjure himself. Very clever! Bravo Elizabeth!

Of course there was a slight feeling of disappointment, for only a few minutes ago some catastrophic development seemed likely, and Tilling’s appetite for social catastrophe was keen. The Padre sighed and began in a resigned voice “A’weel, all’s well that ends well”, and Georgie hurried home to tell Lucia what had really happened and how clever Elizabeth had been. She sent fondest love to Worshipful, and as there were now four of them left, they adjourned to Diva’s card-room for a rubber of bridge.

Diva’s Janet came up to clear tea away, and with her the bouncing Irish terrier, Paddy, who had only got a little eczema. He scouted about the room, licking up crumbs from the floor and found the riding-whip. It was of agreeable texture for the teeth, just about sufficiently tough to make gnawing a pleasure as well as a duty. He picked it up, and, the back-door being open, took it into the wood-shed and dealt with it. He went over it twice, reducing it to a wet and roughly minced sawdust. There was a silver cap on it, which he spurned and when he had triturated or swallowed most of the rest, he rolled in the debris and shook himself. Except for the silver cap, no murderer could have disposed of a corpse with greater skill.

Upstairs the geniality of the tea-table had crumbled over cards. Elizabeth had been losing and she was feeling hot. She said to Diva “This little room—so cosy—is quite stifling, dear. May we have the window open?” Diva opened it as a deal was in progress, and the cards blew about the table: Elizabeth’s remnant consisted of Kings and aces, but a fresh deal was necessary. Diva dropped a card on the floor, face upwards, and put her foot on it so nimbly that nobody could see what it was. She got up to fetch the book of rules to see what ought to happen next, and, moving her foot disclosed an ace. Elizabeth demanded another fresh deal. That was conceded, but it left a friction. Then towards the end of a hand, Elizabeth saw that she had revoked, long, long ago, and detection was awaiting her. “I’ll give you the last trick,” she said, and attempted to jumble up together all the cards. “Na, na, not so fast, Mistress,” cried the Padre, and he pounced on the card of error. “Rather like cheating: rather like Elizabeth” was the unspoken comment, and everyone remembered how she had tried the same device about eighteen months ago. The atmosphere grew acid. The Padre and Evie had to hurry off for a choir-practice, for which they were already late, and Elizabeth finding she had not lost as much as she feared lingered for a chat.