Lucia Victrix (33 page)

‘Quite right. Don't put in about the eagles and the lions,' said Diva.

‘No, I thought I would leave that out. Though I like that part,' said Georgie for the sake of Mrs Bartlett.

‘Talking of whisky,' said Diva, flying back, as her manner was, to a remote allusion, ‘Major Benjy's finished all the pre-war whisky that Lucia gave him. At least I heard him ordering some more yesterday. Oh, and there's the notice of his sale. Old English furniture – yes, that may mean two things, and I know which of them it is. Valuable works of Art. Well I never! A print of the “Monarch of the Glen” and a photograph of the “Soul's Awakening”. Rubbish! Fine tiger-skins! The skins may be all right, but they're bald.'

‘My dear, how severe you are,' said Georgie. ‘Now I must go and see how they're getting on with the inscription. Au reservoir.'

Diva nodded at Evie Bartlett.

‘Nice to hear that again,' she said. ‘I've not heard it – well, since.'

The cenotaph with its inscription in bold leaded letters to say that Georgie had erected it in memory of the two undivided ladies, roused much admiration, and a full-page reproduction of it appeared in the Parish Magazine for April, which appeared on the last day of March. The stone-cutter had slightly miscalculated the space at his disposal for the inscription, and the words ‘Elizabeth Mapp' were considerably smaller than the words ‘Emmeline Lucas' in order to get them into the line. Though Tilling said nothing about that, it was felt that the error was productive of a very suitable effect, if a symbolic meaning was interpreted into it. Georgie was considered to have done it very handsomely and to be behaving in a way that contrasted most favourably with the conduct of Major Benjy, for whereas Georgie was keeping up Grebe at great expense, and restoring, all at his own charge, the havoc the flood had wrought in the garden, Major Benjy, after unsuccessfully trying to let Mallards at ten guineas a week, had moved into the house, and, with a precipitation that was as rash as it was indelicate, was already negotiating about the disposal of his own, and was to have a sale of his furniture on April the first. He had bought a motor, he had replenished the cellars of Mallards with strong wines and more pre-war whisky, he was spending money like water and on the evening of this last day of March he gave a bridge-party in the garden-room.

Georgie and Diva and Mrs Padre were the guests at this party: there had been dinner first, a rich elaborate dinner, and bridge afterwards up till midnight. It had been an uncomfortable evening, and before it was over they all wished they had not come, for Major Benjy had alluded to it as a house-warming, which showed that either his memory was going, or that his was a very callous nature, for no one whose perceptions were not of the commonest could possibly have used that word so soon. He had spoken of his benefactress with fulsome warmth, but it was painfully evident from what source this posthumous affection sprang. He thought of having the garden-room redecorated, the house wanted brightening up a bit, he even offered each of them one of Miss Mapp's water-colour sketches, of which was a profusion on the walls, as a memento of their friend, God bless her … There he was straddling in the doorway with the air of a vulgar
nouveau riche
owner of an ancestral property, as they went their ways homeward into the night, and they heard him bolt and lock the door and put up the chain which Lucia in her tenancy had had repaired in order to keep out the uninvited and informal visits of Miss Mapp. ‘It would serve him jolly well right,' thought Georgie, ‘if she came back.'

It was a calm and beautiful night with a high tide that overflowed the channel of the river. There was spread a great sheet of moonlit water over the submerged meadows at the margin, and it came up to the foot of the rebuilt bank opposite Grebe. Between four and five of the morning of April the first, a trawler entered the mouth of the river, and just at the time when the stars were growing pale and the sky growing red with the coming dawn, it drew up at the little quay to the east of the town, and was moored to the shore. There stepped out of it two figures clad in overalls and tarpaulin jackets.

‘I think we had better go straight to Mallards, dear,' said Elizabeth, ‘as it's so close, and have a nice cup of tea to warm ourselves. Then you can telephone from there to Grebe, and tell them to send the motor up for you.'

‘I shall ring up Georgie too,' said Lucia. ‘I can't bear to think that his suspense should last a minute more than is necessary.'

Elizabeth pointed upwards.

‘See, there's the sun catching the top of the church tower,' she said. ‘Little did I think I should ever see dear Tilling again.'

‘I never had the slightest doubt about it,' said Lucia. ‘Look, there are the fields we floated across on the kitchen-table. I wonder what happened to it.'

They climbed the steps at the south-east angle of the town, and up the slope to the path across the churchyard. This path led close by the south side of the church, and the white marble of the cenotaph gleamed in the early sunlight.

‘What a handsome tomb,' said Elizabeth. ‘It's quite new. But how does it come here? No one has been buried in the churchyard for a hundred years.'

Lucia gave a gasp as the polished lead letters caught her eye.

‘But it's us!' she said.

They stood side by side in their tarpaulins, and together in a sort of chant read the inscription aloud.

T
HIS
S
TONE WAS
E
RECTED BY

G
EORGE
P
ILLSON

I
N
L
OVING
M
EMORY OF

EMMELINE LUCAS
AND
Elizabeth Mapp

Lost
AT
S
EA ON
B
OXING
D
AY
. 1930

‘I
N
D
EATH
T
HEY
WERE NOT
D
IVIDED
.'

‘I've never heard of such a thing,' cried Lucia. ‘I call it most premature of Georgie, assuming that I was dead like that. The inscription must be removed instantly. All the same it was kind of him and what a lot of money it must have cost him! Gracious me, I suppose he thought – Let us hurry, Elizabeth.'

Elizabeth was still staring at the stone.

‘I am puzzled to know why my name is put in such exceedingly small letters,' she said acidly. ‘You can hardly read it. As you say, dear, it was most premature of him. I should call it impertinent, and I'm very glad dear Major Benjy had nothing to do with it. There's an indelicacy about it.'

They went quickly on past Mallards Cottage where the blinds were still down, and there was the window of the garden-room from which each had made so many thrilling observations, and the red-brick front, glowing in the sunlight, of Mallards itself. As they crossed the cobbled way to the front door, Elizabeth looked down towards the High Street and saw on Major Benjy's house next door the house-agents' board announcing that the freehold of this desirable residence was for disposal. There were bills pasted on the walls announcing the sale of furniture to take place there that very day.

Her face turned white, and she laid a quaking hand on Lucia's arm.

‘Look, Major Benjy's house is for sale,' she faltered. ‘Oh, Lucia, what has happened? Have we come back from the dead,
as it were, to find that it's our dear old friend instead? And to think –' She could not complete the sentence.

‘My dear, you mustn't jump at any such terrible conclusions,' said Lucia. ‘He may, have changed his house –'

Elizabeth shook her head; she was determined to believe the worst, and indeed it seemed most unlikely that Major Benjy who had lived in the same house for a full quarter of a century could have gone to any new abode but one. Meantime, eager to put an end to this suspense, Elizabeth kept pressing the bell, and Lucia plying the knocker of Mallards.

‘They all sleep on the attic floor,' said Elizabeth, ‘but I think they must hear us soon if we go on. Ah, there's a step on the stairs. Someone is coming down.'

They heard the numerous bolts on the door shot back, they heard the rattle of the released chain. The door was opened and there within stood Major Benjy. He had put on his dinner jacket over his Jaeger pyjamas, and had carpet slippers on his feet. He was sleepy and bristly and very cross.

‘Now what's all this about, my men,' he said, seeing two tarpaulined figures on the threshold. ‘What do you mean by waking me up with that infernal –'

Elizabeth's suspense was quite over.

‘You wretch,' she cried in a fury. ‘What do you mean? Why are you in my house? Ah, I guess! He! He! He! You learned about my will, did you? You thought you wouldn't wait to step into a dead woman's shoes, but positively tear them off my living feet. My will shall be revoked this day: I promise you that … Now out you go, you horrid supplanter! Off to your own house with you, for you shan't spend another minute in mine.'

During this impassioned address Major Benjy's face changed to an expression of the blankest dismay, as if he had seen something much worse (as indeed he had) than a ghost. He pulled pieces of himself together.

‘But, my dear Miss Elizabeth,' he said. ‘You'll allow me surely, to get my clothes on, and above all to say one word of my deep thankfulness that you and Mrs Lucas – it is Mrs Lucas, isn't it? –'

‘Get out!' said Elizabeth, stamping her foot. ‘Thankfulness indeed! There's a lot of thankfulness in your face! Go away! Shoo!'

Major Benjy had faced wounded tigers (so he said) in India, but then he had a rifle in his hand. He could not face his benefactress, and, with first one slipper and then the other dropping off his feet, he hurried down the few yards of pavement to his own house. The two ladies entered: Elizabeth banged the door and put up the chain.

‘So that's that,' she observed (and undoubtedly it was). ‘Ah, here's Withers. Withers, we've come back, and though you ought never to have let the Major set foot in my house, I don't blame you, for I feel sure he bullied you into it.'

‘Oh, miss!' said Withers. ‘Is it you? Fancy! Well, that is a surprise!'

‘Now get Mrs Lucas and me a cup of tea,' said Elizabeth, ‘and then she's going back to Grebe. That wretch hasn't been sleeping in my room, I trust?'

‘No, in the best spare bedroom,' said Withers.

‘Then get my room ready, and I shall go to bed for a few hours. We've been up all night. Then, Withers, take all Major Benjy's clothes and his horrid pipes, and all that belongs to him, and put them on the steps outside. Ring him up, and tell him where he will find them. But not one foot shall he set in
my
house again.'

Lucia went to the telephone and rang up Cadman's cottage for her motor. She heard his exclamation of ‘My Gawd', she heard (what she supposed was) Foljambe's cry of astonishment, and then she rang up Georgie. He and his household were all a-bed and asleep when the telephone began its summons, but presently the persistent tinkle penetrated into his consciousness, and made him dream that he was again watching Lucia whirling down the flood on the kitchen-table and ringing an enormous dinner-bell as she swept by the steps. Then he became completely awake and knew it was only the telephone.

‘The tarsome thing!' he muttered. ‘Who on earth can it be ringing one up at this time? Go on ringing then till you're tired. I shall go to sleep again.'

In spite of these resolutions, he did nothing of the kind. So ceaseless was the summons that in a minute or two he got out of bed, and putting on his striped dressing-gown (blue and yellow) went down to his sitting-room.

‘Yes. Who is it? What do you want?' he said crossly.

There came a little merry laugh, and then a voice, which he had thought was silent for ever, spoke in unmistakable accents.

‘Georgie!
Georgino mio!
' it said.

His heart stood still.

‘What? What?' he cried.

‘Yes, it's Lucia,' said the voice. ‘Me's tum home, Georgie.'

Eighty thousand pounds (less death duties) and Grebe seemed to sweep by him like an avalanche, and fall into the gulf of the things that might have been. But it was not the cold blast of that ruin that filled his eyes with tears.

‘Oh my dear!' he cried. ‘Is it really you? Lucia, where are you? Where are you talking from?'

‘Mallards. Elizabeth and I –'

‘What, both of you?' called Georgie. ‘Then – where's Major Benjy?'

‘Just gone home,' said Lucia discreetly. ‘And as soon as I've had a cup of tea I'm going to Grebe.'

‘But I must come round and see you at once,' said Georgie. ‘I'll just put some things on.'

‘Yes, do,' said Lucia. ‘Presto, presto, Georgie.'

Careless of his reputation for being the best-dressed man in Tilling, he put on his dress trousers and a pullover, and his thick brown cape, and did not bother about his
toupet.
The front door of Mallards was open, and Elizabeth's servants were laying out on the top step a curious collection of golf-clubs and tooth-brushes and clothes. From mere habit – everyone in Tilling had the habit – he looked up at the window of the garden-room as he passed below it, and was astonished to see two mariners in sou'wester caps and tarpaulin jackets kissing their hands to him. He had only just time to wonder who these could possibly be when he guessed. He flew into Lucia's arms, then wondered if he ought to kiss Elizabeth too. But there was a slight reserve about her which caused him to refrain. He was
not brilliant enough at so early an hour to guess that she had seen the smaller lettering in which her loving memory was recorded.

There was but time for a few ejaculations and a promise from Georgie to dine at Grebe that night, before Lucia's motor arrived, and the imperturbable Cadman touched his cap and said to Lucia, ‘Very pleased to see you back, ma'am,' as she picked her way between the growing deposits of socks and other more intimate articles of male attire which were now being ranged on the front steps. Georgie hurried back to Mallards Cottage to dress in a manner more worthy of his reputation, and Elizabeth up to her bedroom for a few hours' sleep. Below her oil-skins she still wore the ragged remains of the clothes in which she had left Tilling on Boxing Day, and now she drew out of the pocket of her frayed and sea-stained jacket, a half-sheet of discoloured paper. She unfolded it and having once more read the mystic words ‘Take two hen lobsters', she stowed it safely away for future use.

Meantime Major Benjy next door had been the prey of the most sickening reflections; whichever way he turned, fate gave him some stinging blow that set him staggering and reeling in another direction. Leaning out of an upper window of his own house, he observed his clothes and boots and articles of toilet being laid out like a bird's breakfast on the steps of Mallards, and essaying to grind his teeth with rage he discovered that his upper dental plate must still be reposing in a glass of water in the best spare bedroom which he had lately quitted in such haste. To recover his personal property was the first necessity, and when from his point of observation he saw that the collection had grown to a substantial size, he crept up the pavement, seized a bundle of miscellaneous articles, as many as he could carry, then stole back again, dropping a nail-brush here and a sock-suspender there, and dumped them in his house. Three times he must go on these degrading errands, before he had cleared all the bird's breakfast away; indeed he was an early bird feeding on the worms of affliction.

Tilling was beginning to awake now: the milkman came clattering down the street and, looking in amazement at his
dishevelled figure, asked whether he wanted his morning supply left at his own house or at Mallards: Major Benjy turned on him so appalling a face that he left no milk at either and turned swiftly into the less alarming air of Porpoise Street. Again he had to make the passage of his Via Dolorosa to glean the objects which had dropped from his overburdened arms, and as he returned he heard a bumping noise behind him, and saw his new portmanteau hauled out by Withers rolling down the steps into the street. He emerged again when Withers had shut the door, put more gleanings into it and pulled it into his house. There he made a swift and sorry toilet, for there was business to be done which would not brook delay. Already the preparations for the sale of his furniture were almost finished; the carpet and hearth-rug in his sitting-room were tied up together and labelled Lot 1; the fire-irons and a fishing-rod and a rhinoceros-hide whip were Lot 2; a kitchen tray with packs of cards, a tobacco jar, a piece of chipped
cloisonné
ware and a roll of toilet paper formed an unappetizing Lot 3. The sale must be stopped at once and he went down to the auctioneer's in the High Street and informed him that owing to circumstances over which he had no control he was compelled to cancel it. It was pointed out to him that considerable expense had already been incurred for the printing and display of the bills that announced it, for the advertisements in the local press, for the time and trouble already spent in arranging and marking the lots, but the Major bawled out: ‘Damn it all, the things are mine and I won't sell one of them. Send me in your bill.' Then he had to go to the house agents' and tell them to withdraw his house from the market and take down his board, and coming out of the office he ran into Irene, already on her way to Grebe, who cried out: ‘They've come back, old Benjy-wenjy. Joy! Joy!