The Complete Mapp & Lucia (182 page)

Foljambe entered.

“Lunch,” she said, and left the door of the garden-room wide open.

Elizabeth sprang up with a shrill cry of astonishment.

“No idea it was lunch-time,” she cried. “How naughty of me not to have kept my eye on the clock, but time passed so quickly, as it always does, dear, when I’m talking to you. But you haven’t convinced me; far from it. I must fly; Benjy will call me a naughty girl for being so late.”

Lucia remembered that the era of plain living had begun. Hashed mutton and treacle pudding. Perhaps Elizabeth might go away if she knew that. On the other hand, Elizabeth had certainly come here at one o’clock in order to be asked to lunch, and it would be wiser to ask her.

“Ring him up and say you’re lunching here,” she decided. “Do.”

Elizabeth recollected that she had ordered hashed beef and marmalade pudding at home.

“I consider that a command, dear Worship,” she said. “May I use your telephone?”

All these afflictions strongly reacted on Georgie. Mutton and Mapp and incessant conversation about municipal affairs were making home far less comfortable than he had a right to expect. Then Lucia sprang another conscientious surprise on him, when she returned that afternoon positively invigorated by a long Council meeting.

“I want to consult you, Georgie,” she said. “Ever since the
Hampshire Argus
reported that I played Bridge in Diva’s card-room, the whole question has been on my mind. I don’t think I ought to play for money.”

“You can’t call threepence a hundred money,” said Georgie.

“It is not a large sum, but emphatically it
is
money. It’s the principle of the thing. A very sad case—all this is very private—has just come to my notice. Young Twistevant, the grocer’s son, has been backing horses, and is in debt with his last quarter’s rent unpaid. Lately married and a baby coming. All the result of gambling.”

“I don’t see how the baby is the result of gambling,” said Georgie. “Unless he bet he wouldn’t have one.”

Lucia gave the wintry smile that was reserved for jokes she didn’t care about.

“I expressed myself badly,” she said. “I only meant that his want of money, when he will need it more than ever, is the result of gambling. The principle is the same whether it’s threepence or a starving baby. And Bridge surely, with its call both on prudence and enterprise, is a sufficiently good game to play for love: for love of Bridge. Let us set an example. When we have our next Bridge party, let it be understood that there are no stakes.”

“I don’t think you’ll get many Bridge parties if that’s understood,” said Georgie. “Everyone will go seven no trumps at once.”

“Then they’ll be doubled,” cried Lucia triumphantly.

“And redoubled. It wouldn’t be any fun. Most monotonous. The dealer might as well pick up his hand and say Seven no-trumps, doubled and redoubled, before he looked at it.”

“I hope we take a more intelligent interest in the game than
that,”
said Lucia. “The judgment in declaring, the skill in the play of the cards, the various systems so carefully thought out—surely we shan’t cease to practise them just because a few pence are no longer at stake? Indeed, I think we shall have far pleasanter games. They will be more tranquil, and on a loftier level. The question of even a few pence sometimes produces acrimony.”

“I can’t agree,” said Georgie. “Those acrimonies are the result of pleasant excitement. And what’s the use of keeping the score, and wondering if you dare finesse, if it leads to nothing? You might try playing for twopence a hundred instead of threepence—”

“I must repeat that it’s the principle,” interrupted Lucia. “I feel that in my position it ought to be known that though I play cards, which I regard as quite a reasonable relaxation, I no longer play for money. I feel sure we should find it just as exciting. Let us put it to the test. I will ask the Padre and Evie to dine and play tomorrow, and we’ll see how it goes.”

It didn’t go. Lucia made the depressing announcement during dinner, and a gloom fell on the party as they cut for partners. For brief bright moments one or other of them forgot that there was nothing to be gained by astuteness except the consciousness of having been clever, but then he (or she) remembered, and the gleam faded. Only Lucia remained keen and critical. She tried with agonised anxiety to recollect if there was another trump in and decided wrong.

“Too stupid of me, Padre,” she said. “I ought to have known. I should have drawn it, and then we made our contract. Quite inexcusable. Many apologies.”

“Eh, it’s no matter; it’s no matter whatever,” he said. “Just nothing at all.”

Then came the adding-up. Georgie had not kept the score and everyone accepted Lucia’s addition without a murmur. At half past ten instead of eleven, it was agreed that it was wiser not to begin another rubber, and Georgie saw the languid guests to the door. He came back to find Lucia replaying the last hand.

“You could have got another trick, dear,” she said. “Look; you should have discarded instead of trumping. A most interesting manœuvre. As to our test, I think they were both quite as keen as ever, and for myself I never had a more enjoyable game.”

The news of this depressing evening spread apace through Tilling, and a small party assembled next day at Diva’s for shilling teas and discussions.

“I winna play for nowt,” said the Padre. “Such a mirthless evening I never spent. And by no means a well-furnished table at dinner. An unusual parsimony.”

Elizabeth chimed in.

“I got hashed mutton and treacle pudding for lunch a few days ago,” she said. “Just what I should have had at home except that it was beef and marmalade.”

“Perhaps you happened to look in a few minutes before unexpectedly,” suggested Diva who was handing crumpets.

There was a nasty sort of innuendo about this.

“I haven’t got any cream, dear,” retorted Elizabeth. “Would you kindly—”

“It’ll be an eighteenpenny tea then,” Diva warned her, “though you’ll get potted meat sandwiches as well. Shall it be eighteenpence?”

Elizabeth ignored the suggestion.

“As for playing bridge for nothing,” she resumed, “I won’t. I’ve never played it before, and I’m too old to learn now. Dear Worship, of course, may do as she likes, so long as she doesn’t do it with me.”

Diva finished her serving and sat down with her customers. Janet brought her cream and potted-meat sandwiches, for of course she could eat what she liked, without choosing between a shilling and an eighteenpenny tea.

“Makes it all so awkward,” she said. “If one of us gives a Bridge-party, must the table at which Lucia plays do it for nothing?”

“The other table, too, I expect,” said Elizabeth bitterly, watching Diva pouring quantities of cream into her tea. “Worship mightn’t like to know that gambling was going on in her presence.”

“That I won’t submit to,” cried Evie. “I won’t, I won’t. She may be Mayor but she isn’t Mussolini.”

“I see nought for it,” said the Padre, “but not to ask her. I play my Bridge for diversion and it doesna’ divert me to exert my mind over the cards and not a bawbee or the loss if it to show for all my trouble.”

Other customers came in; the room filled up and Diva had to get busy again. The office boy from the
Hampshire Argus
and a friend had a good blow-out, and ate an entire pot of jam, which left little profit on their teas. On the other hand, Evie and the Padre and Elizabeth were so concerned about the Bridge crisis that they hardly ate anything. Diva presented them with their bills, and they each gave her a tip of twopence, which was quite decent for a shilling tea, but the office boy and his friend, in the bliss of repletion, gave her threepence. Diva thanked them warmly.

Evie and the Padre continued the subject on the way home.

“Such hard luck on Mr. Georgie,” she said. “He’s as bored as anybody with playing for love. I saw him yawn six times the other night and he never added up. I think I’ll ask him to a Bridge-tea at Diva’s, just to see if he’ll come without Lucia. Diva would be glad to play with us afterwards, but it would never do to ask her to tea first.”

“How’s that?” asked the Padre.

“Why she would be making a profit by being our guest. And how could we tip her for four teas, when she had had one of them herself? Very awkward for her.”

“A’weel, then let her get her own tea,” said the Padre, “though I don’t think she’s as delicate of feeling as all that. But ask the puir laddie by all means.”

Georgie was duly rung up and a slightly embarrassing moment followed. Evie thought she had said with sufficient emphasis “So pleased if
you
will come to Diva’s tomorrow for tea and Bridge,” but he asked her to hold on while he saw if Lucia was free. Then Evie had to explain it didn’t matter whether Lucia was free or not, and Georgie accepted.

“I felt sure it would happen,” he said to himself, “but I think I shan’t tell Lucia. Very likely she’ll be busy.”

Vain was the hope of man. As they were moderately enjoying their frugal lunch next day, Lucia congratulated herself on having a free afternoon.

“Positively nothing to do,” she said. “Not a committee to attend, nothing. Let us have one of our good walks, and pop in to have tea with Diva afterwards. I want to encourage her enterprise.”

“A walk would be lovely,” said Georgie, “but Evie asked me to have tea at Diva’s and play a rubber afterwards.”

“I don’t remember her asking me,” said Lucia. “Does she expect me?”

“I rather think Diva’s making our fourth,” faltered Georgie.

Lucia expressed strong approval.

“A very sensible innovation,” she said. “I remember telling you that it struck me as rather
bourgeois,
rather Victorian, always to have husbands and wives together. No doubt also, dear Evie felt sure I should be busy up till dinner-time. Really very considerate of her, not to give me the pain of refusing. How I shall enjoy a quiet hour with a book.”

“She doesn’t like it at all the same,” thought Georgie, as, rather fatigued with a six mile tramp in a thick sea mist, he tripped down the hill to Diva’s, “and I shouldn’t wonder if she guessed the reason…” The tea-room was crowded, so that Diva could not have had tea with them even if she had been asked. She presented the bill to Evie herself (three eighteenpenny teas) and received the generous tip of fourpence a head.

“Thank you, dear Evie,” she said pocketing the extra shilling. “I do call that handsome. I’ll join you in the card-room as soon as ever I can.”

They had most exciting games at the usual stakes. It was impossible to leave the last rubber unfinished, and Georgie had to hurry over his dressing not to keep Lucia waiting. Her eye had that gimlet-like aspect, which betokened a thirst for knowledge.

“A good tea and a pleasant rubber?” she asked.

“Both,” said Georgie. “I enjoyed myself.”

“So glad. And many people having tea?”

“Crammed. Diva couldn’t join us till close on six.”

“How pleasant for Diva. And did you play for stakes, dear, or for nothing?”

“Stakes,” said Georgie. “The usual threepence.”

“Georgie, I’m going to ask a favour of you,” she said. “I want you to set an example—poor young Twistervant, you know—I want it to be widely known that I do not play cards for money. You diminish the force of my example, dear, if you continue to do so. The lime-light is partially, at any rate, on you as well as me. I ask you not to.”

“I’m afraid I can’t consent,” said Georgie. “I don’t see any harm in it—Naturally you will do as you like—”

“Thank you, dear,” said Lucia.

“No need to thank me. And I shall do as I like.”

Grosvenor entered.

“
Silentio!”
whispered Lucia. “Yes, Grosvenor?”

“Mrs. Mapp-Flint has rung up”—began Grosvenor.

“Tell her I can’t attend to any business this evening,” said Lucia.

“She doesn’t want you to, ma’am. She only wants to know if Mr. Pillson will dine with her the day after tomorrow and play Bridge.”

“Thank her,” said Georgie firmly. “Delighted.”

Card-playing circles in Tilling remained firm: there was no slump. If, in view of her exemplary position, Worship declined to play Bridge for money, far be it from us, said Tilling, to seek to persuade her against the light of conscience. But if Worship imagined that Tilling intended to follow her example, the sooner she got rid of that fond illusion the better. Lucia sent out invitations for another Bridge party at Mallards but everybody was engaged. She could not miss the significance of that, but she put up a proud front and sent for the latest book on Bridge and studied it incessantly, almost to the neglect of her Mayoral Duties, in order to prove that what she cared for was the game in itself. Her grasp of it, she declared, improved out of all knowledge, but she got no opportunities of demonstrating that agreeable fact. Invitations rained on Georgie, for it was clearly unfair that he should get no Bridge because nobody would play with the Mayor, and he returned these hospitalities by asking his friends to have tea with him at Diva’s rooms, with a rubber afterwards, for he could not ask three gamblers to dinner and leave Lucia to study Bridge problems by herself, while the rest of the party played. Other entertainers followed his example, for it was far less trouble to order tea at Diva’s and find the card-room ready, and as Algernon Wyse expressed it, ‘ye olde tea-house’ became quite like Almack’s. This was good business for the establishment, and Diva bitterly regretted that it had not occurred to her from the first to charge card-money. She put the question one day to Elizabeth.

“All those markers being used up so fast,” she said, “and I shall have to get new cards so much oftener than I expected. Twopence, say, for card-money, don’t you think?”

“I shouldn’t dream of it, dear,” said Elizabeth very decidedly. “You must be doing very well as it is. But I should recommend some fresh packs of cards. A little greasy, when last I played. More daintiness, clean cards, sharp pencils and so on are well worth while. But card-money, no!”