Wigs on the Green (22 page)

‘Messenger arrives announcing that Clive and Warren Hastings have disgraced themselves in India.

‘Third Episode:
Clive and Warren Hastings, seated on an elephant, are surrounded by Nautch girls – (by the way, I hope the hind legs is here this afternoon, Miss Trant had to be them on Monday – Ah! Union Jackshirt Pierpont, good). Rackenbridge brass band plays “In a Persian Garden”.

‘Pause, for the ennobling of Pitt. Rackenbridge brass band plays “For he’s a jolly good fellow”.

‘Messenger arrives announcing the French Revolution. Rackenbridge brass band plays “Mademoiselle from Armentières”.

‘Another messenger arrives announcing the wounding of Nelson at the Canary Islands and his naval victory over French Pacifists.

‘Speech by George the Third. “God blew His breath and they were scattered,” etc.

‘Fourth Episode:
Nelson, his telescope pressed to his blind eye, and staring at Lady Hamilton with his other one, has his arm blown off. Rackenbridge brass band plays, “Every nice girl loves a sailor, every nice girl loves a tar”. Tableau of Lady Hamilton in one of her attitudes.

‘Messenger arrives announcing Death of Nelson.

‘Fifth Episode:
Nelson dying on a heap of straw, Hardy kisses
him. Speech by Nelson, “It is a far, far better thing I do,” etc. Nelson dies saying, “Look after pretty witty Emmie”. Rackenbridge brass band plays the “Dead March in Saul” again.

‘Final tableau: “The Exile of Napoleon”.

‘Rackenbridge brass band plays “God save the King”.

‘I hope that is all quite clear to you now,’ said Jasper, rather hoarsely, as he jumped down from his chair.

Meanwhile, the neighbourhood was turning up in force. Had T.P.O.F. only known it, her change of plans was to avail her nothing, and the very people whose presence beneath her roof was so obnoxious to her were all busily paying their shillings at the park gates. They were not only eager to enjoy this pageant, the advertisements of which had been so strangely worded, but most of them had long been immensely curious to see Eugenia, the unknown heiress, and the by now almost legendary beauties of Chalford House. Large shining cars therefore sailed up the drive one after another, to be directed by Comrades to a rather soggy parking-place where they disgorged the infamous
élite
of the neighbourhood. They all laughed and chattered together, crying out that the house was a dream and wondering whether they should meet Eugenia; the weight of shame lay lightly upon their shoulders – they would have been surprised if they knew the violence of Lady Chalford’s feelings about them.

The hour of three was near at hand. Mrs Lace, resplendently 1927 in her gilded American-cloth dress and wig of paper-clips, had long ago disappeared with Mr Wilkins to a place behind the kitchen-garden, where the royal coach awaited them. The party of welcomers was gracefully posed round the front door, ready to greet the Sovereign and his Consort with elegant bows and curtsies; Beau Brummels, Scarlet Pimpernels and Lady Teezles lined the drive for as far as the eye could see, all agog to make a loyal eighteenth-century demonstration. The crowd of onlookers had assumed proportions such as nobody had dared to hope for.

A hush of expectation fell upon all.

‘Something awful is going to happen,’ said Jasper, nervously. ‘I know it.’

At last thrilling cheers were heard, the coach was evidently on its way. A shudder of excitement swept the crowd, all necks were craned to see the great arrival, all breaths were drawn in to swell the cheering which was coming ever nearer. Suddenly it wavered, lost heart and stopped. A noise like thunder was heard instead, punctuated by horrible thin shrieks, and the next moment the coach came crashing into sight with horses at full gallop and evidently quite out of control. Mrs Lace, screaming loudly, was attempting to throw herself out of a window, and was being forcibly restrained from doing so by Mr Wilkins. Both their wigs had fallen off.

The crowd now took to its heels. It seemed as though nothing could save coach and horses from being dashed to pieces against Chalford House when suddenly, Mr Wilkins, having thrown Mrs Lace on to the floor, climbed out through the window and up on to the coachman’s seat, where he wrenched the reins from the trembling and inefficient hands of Lady Chalford’s ancient groom. In the nick of time he managed to drag Vivian Jackson and his colleague up onto the grass. The coach, after rocking frantically for a moment, overturned, and both horses were brought to a standstill. The Comrades now dashed forward; with ready hands they dragged forth the hysterical Mrs Lace, and carried away the groom on an improvised stretcher – he appeared to be suffering from concussion. Lady Marjorie, beside herself with love and admiration, implored her hero to tell her that he was still alive, which he did very heartily; Eugenia sobbed on the neck of her horse, ‘Darling, darling Vivian Jackson, you must never frighten me like that again, you might have been killed. Are you sure you’re all right?’ She felt his legs one after the other and presently led him away to his loose-box.

‘Funny thing,’ said Mr Wilkins to Jasper, ‘a chap who lives at Rackenbridge – forget his name – caused all the trouble. He sprang
out of the crowd waving a yellow flag at the horses, extraordinary stupid thing to do, you know; why, they might easily have bolted.’

Mrs Lace was taken into Chalford House. Her golden gown was split in several places and her wig quite ruined but her person was unscathed. She indulged in a comforting exhibition of hysteria until Major Lace gave her a good shaking, after which she restored her face, borrowed a cotton-wool wig from kind Miss Trant, and resumed her place at the side of Mr Wilkins.

Meanwhile the pageant was proceeding as though nothing out of the way had happened. Mr Wilkins, perfectly unmoved by his shaking, remembered his speeches better than ever before and went through his royal part as to the manner born.

The Social Unionists gave him a rousing welcome as he mounted the platform.

‘G.E.O.R.G.E! We want George!’ they cried.

Lady Marjorie stood beside him, her horse-hair locks quivering, her heart thumping, her cheeks flushed. She also wanted George.

It was all an enormous success. The episodes went off without a single hitch and nobody seemed to notice the fact that Jasper had ignored historical truth to a degree unprecedented even in pageantry. The most popular scenes of all were just those with the smallest foundation in fact.

Social Unionists and the public alike shouted themselves to a frenzy when, a messenger arriving to tell George the Third that Louis of France had been razored up by Marxist non-Aryans, the English monarch observed sadly, ‘Alas! my poor brother!’

The episodes were to have been brought to an end by a tableau representing Napoleon on board the
Bellerophon
, but at the last moment Eugenia had vetoed this, as it had suddenly occurred to her that, even though Napoleon was a dirty foreigner, he was nevertheless somebody’s Leader. They ended therefore, rather pointlessly, with the Death of Nelson, which was not altogether a success from Jasper’s point of view, as both Hardy and Lady Hamilton made an unseemly rush to kiss the expiring admiral. The public, however, appeared to enjoy it.

After this the Rackenbridge brass band struck up the tune of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, to which the Social Unionists, standing at attention, sang their hymn.

After this another unrehearsed incident took place. There was a moment’s pause while George the Third prepared to descend from the platform for his inspection of the Olde Englyshe Fayre. The Comrades, who had completely entered into the spirit of the thing, were crowding round him cheering themselves hoarse, when suddenly and most unexpectedly they were attacked from the rear by quantities of horrible-looking men dressed as the
sansculottes
of Revolutionary France and wearing yellow caps on their heads. ‘We want peace! we want peace!’ they cried, scattering white feathers in every direction.

‘Kill Social Unionism!’ and they fell upon the defenceless Comrades with life preservers, knuckledusters, potatoes stuffed with razor blades, bicycle bells filled with shot, and other primitive, but effective, weapons. The Social Unionists, who were not only unarmed, but also sadly hampered by their full-bottomed coats, ill-fitting breeches and the wigs, which in many cases fell right over their eyes, impeding their vision, were at first utterly overcome by the enemy. Many were laid out, others, less fortunate, were carried away to a distant part of the estate where atrocities too horrible to name were perpetrated upon their persons. Mrs Lace was
dragged to the lake and there was soundly ducked more than once by masked, but vaguely familiar assailants.

Eugenia, meanwhile, had gone into the house to fetch a sunshade for her grandmother. On hearing the din of battle she rushed out again, to be confronted by an appalling scene of carnage. The Social Unionists, in small, scattered groups, were defending themselves bravely enough, but to no avail. They were completely disorganized, and it was clear that the Pacifists must win the day, unless something quite unforeseen should happen to turn the tide of war against them.

It happened. Like a whirlwind, Eugenia Malmains dashed into the fray, seizing a Union Jack from off the platform she held it high above her head and with loud cries she rallied the Comrades to her. The Pacifists fell back for a second in amazement, never had they seen so large, so beautiful, or so fierce a woman. That second was their undoing. They returned ferociously enough to the charge, but from now onwards the fight began to go against them. The Social Unionists, all rallying to Eugenia, presented at last a united front. Led by her, they shouted their fighting cry: ‘We defend the Union Jack.’

and charged again and again into the ranks of the enemy, which were gradually falling away before their determined onslaught. The cowardly Pacifists, armed to the teeth though they were, could stand up to the Jackshirt’s fists no longer. They began to retire in extreme confusion, which ended in an utter rout. They fled, leaving in possession of the Comrades a battlefield on which were scattered a quantity of white wigs, white feathers and wounded men.

‘How wonderfully realistic that was,’ said Lady Chalford,
appreciatively. ‘One might almost believe that some of those poor fellows were actually hurt.’ She surveyed the scene through her lorgnettes, and addressed the Duke of Driburgh, who stood at her side. ‘Mr Aspect,’ she continued, ‘has evidently inherited all your talent for writing, my dear Driburgh – I have never forgotten the pretty Valentines you composed so charmingly in those days.’

‘Very kind of you, my dear,’ said the Duke. ‘I presume that what we have just witnessed is the Battle of Waterloo, with your dear little Eugenia in the part of Boadicea, such a clever notion.’

The Social Unionists, in spite of their wounds (and hardly one had escaped injury) now went quite mad with excitement. They hoisted Eugenia upon their shoulders and carried her, with loud cheers, to the platform, from which point of vantage she made a stirring speech. She urged that all who had witnessed this cowardly attack upon the peaceful Social Unionists should join their party without more ado. ‘We are your only safeguard against Pacifism in its most brutal form,’ she cried; ‘do you want your streets to run with blood, your wives to be violated and your children burnt to death? No? Then join the Union Jack defenders here and now —’ She pointed to her tattered flag, saying that in time it would surely be one of the most honoured relics of the Movement. She told the Comrades that their scars were honourable scars, received on a great occasion and in defence of a great cause. Their names would go down to history, she said, and become famous; they would boast in after years to their children and their children’s children that they had been privileged to fight beneath the Union Jack in the Battle of Chalford Park.

This speech was received with the utmost enthusiasm, not only by the Comrades themselves but by members of the public, many of whom now hastened to become recruited to the Social Unionist party, Eugenia herself pinning the little emblem to their bosoms. Such Pacifists as had fallen into their enemies’ hands were presently led away and treated to enormous doses of ‘Ex-Lax’, the ‘Delicious Chocolate Laxative’, which was the only substitute for castor oil to be found in Nanny’s medicine-chest.

The victims of Pacifist atrocities now began to stagger back one by one. They told hair-raising tales of the treatment which they had received, and were hailed as martyrs and heroes by Eugenia, who wrote their names down in a small exercise book. When their wounds had been dressed, and the more serious cases had been put to bed in Lady Chalford’s spare rooms (her ladyship having by this time retired, fatigued by the day’s excitements to her own), Eugenia, at Jasper’s suggestion, led a contingent of Social Unionists to the cellar, and several cases of vintage champagne were carried on to the lawn.