Lucia Victrix (65 page)

‘But there isn't any tradition. No woman has ever been Mayor of Tilling before: you've often told me that. However, don't let us argue about it. I expect Tilling will think it very odd if I'm not there. I shall go up to London that day, and then you can tell them I've been called away.'

‘That would never do,' cried Lucia. ‘Tilling would think it much odder if you weren't here on my great day.'

‘Having dinner alone at Mallards,' said Georgie bitterly. ‘The neck of mutton you spoke of.'

He rose.

‘Time for my bath,' he said. ‘And I shan't talk about it or think about it any more. I leave it to you.'

Georgie went upstairs, feeling much vexed. He undressed and put on his blue silk dressing-gown, and peppered his bath with a liberal allowance of verbena salts. He submerged himself in the fragrant liquid, and concentrated his mind on the subject he had resolved not to think about any more. Just now Lucia seemed able to apply her mind to nothing except herself and the duties or dignities of her coming office.

‘“Egalo-megalo-mayoralo-mania”, I call it,' Georgie said to himself in a withering whisper. ‘Catherine the Great! Delirium! She thinks the whole town is as wildly excited about her being Mayor as she is herself. Whereas it's a matter of supreme indifference to them … All except Elizabeth, who trembles with rage and jealousy whenever she sees Lucia … But she always did that … Bother! I've dropped my soap and it slips away like an eel … All very tarsome. Lucia can't talk about anything else … Breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, there's nothing but that … Mayoral complex … It's a crashing bore, that's What it is … Everlastingly reminding me that I've no official position … Hullo, who's that? No, you can't come in, whoever you are.'

A volley of raps had sounded at the door of the bathroom. Then Lucia's voice:

‘No, I don't want to come in,' she said. ‘But, eureka, Georgie.
Ho trovato: ho ben trovato!'

‘What have you found?' called Georgie, sitting up in his bath.

‘It. Me. My banquet. You and my banquet. I'll tell you at dinner. Be quick.'

‘Probably she'll let me hand the cheese,' thought Georgie, still feeling morose. ‘I'm in no hurry to hear that.'

He padded back to his bedroom in his dressing-gown and green morocco slippers. A parcel had arrived for him while he was at his bath, and Foljambe, the parlourmaid valet had put it on his pink bed-quilt.

‘It must be my new dinner-suit,' he said to himself. ‘And with all this worry I'd quite forgotten about it.'

He cut the string and there it was: jacket and waistcoat and trousers of ruby-coloured velvet, with synthetic-onyx buttons, quite superb. It was Lucia's birthday-present to him; he was to order just what dinner-suit he liked, and the bill was to be sent to her. She knew nothing more, except that he had told her that it would be something quite out of the common and that Tilling would be astonished. He was thrilled with its audacious beauty.

‘Now let me think,' he meditated. ‘One of my pleated shirts, and a black butterfly tie, and my garnet solitaire. And my pink vest. Nobody will see it, but I shall know it's there. And red socks. Or daren't I?'

He swiftly invested himself in this striking creation. It fitted beautifully in front, and he rang the bell for Foljambe to see if it was equally satisfactory behind. Her masterful knock sounded on the door, and he said come in.

Foljambe gave a shrill ejaculation.

‘Lor!' she said. ‘Something fancy-dress, sir?'

‘Not at all,' said Georgie. ‘My new evening suit. Isn't it smart, Foljambe? Does it fit all right at the back?'

‘Seems to,' said Foljambe, pulling his sleeve. ‘Stand a bit straighter, sir. Yes, quite a good fit. Nearly gave me one.'

‘Don't you like it?' asked Georgie anxiously.

‘Well, a bit of a shock, sir. I hope you won't spill things on it, for it would be a rare job to get anything sticky out of the velvet, and you do throw your food about sometimes. But it is pretty now I begin to take it in.'

Georgie went into his sitting-room next door, where there was a big mirror over the fireplace, and turned on all the electric lights. He got up on a chair, so that he could get a more comprehensive view of himself, and revolved slowly in the brilliant light. He was so absorbed in his Narcissism that he did not hear Lucia come out of her bedroom. The door was ajar, and she peeped in. She gave a strangled scream at the sight of a large man in a glaring red suit standing on a chair with his back to her. It was unusual. Georgie whisked round at her cry.

‘Look!' he said. ‘Your delicious present. There it was when I came from my bath. Isn't it lovely?'

Lucia recovered from her shock.

‘Positively Venetian, Georgie,' she said. ‘Real Titian.'

‘I think it's adorable,' said Georgie, getting down. ‘Won't Tilling be excited? Thank you a thousand times.'

‘And a thousand congratulations, Georgino,' she said. ‘Oh, and my discovery! I am a genius, dear. There'll be a high table across the room at my banquet with two tables joining it at the corners going down the room. Me, of course, in the centre of the high table. We shall sit only on one side of these tables. And you can sit all by yourself exactly opposite me. Facing me. No official position, neither above or below the others. Just the Mayor's husband close to her materially, but officially in the air, so to speak.'

From below came the merry sound of little bells that announced dinner. Grosvenor, the other parlourmaid, was playing quite a sweet tune on them to-night, which showed she was pleased with life. When she was cross she made a snappy jangled discord.

‘That solves everything!' said Georgie. ‘Brilliant. How clever of you! I
did
feel a little hurt at the thought of not being there. Listen: Grosvenor's happy, too. We're all pleased.'

He offered her his beautiful velvet arm, and they went downstairs.

‘And my garnet solitaire,' he said. ‘Doesn't it go well with my clothes? I must tuck my napkin in securely. It would be frightful if I spilt anything. I am glad about the banquet.'

‘So am I, dear. It would have been horrid not to have had you there. But I had to reconcile the feelings of private life with the etiquette of public life. We must expect problems of the sort to arise while I'm Mayor –'

‘Such good fish,' said Georgie, trying to divert her from the eternal subject.

Quite useless.

‘Excellent, isn't it,' said Lucia. ‘In the time of Queen Elizabeth, Georgie, the Mayor of Tilling was charged with supplying fish for the Court. A train of pack-mules was despatched to
London twice a week. What a wonderful thing if I could get that custom restored! Such an impetus to the fishermen here.'

‘The Court must have been rather partial to putrid fish,' said Georgie. ‘I shouldn't care to eat a whiting that had been carried on a mule to London in hot weather, or in cold, for that matter.'

‘Ah, I should not mean to go back to the mules,' said Lucia, ‘though how picturesque to see them loaded at the river bank, and starting on their Royal errand. One would use the railway. I wonder if it could be managed. The Royal Fish Express.'

‘Do you propose a special train full of soles and lobsters twice a week for Buckingham Palace or Royal Lodge?' he asked.

‘A refrigerating van would be sufficient. I dare say if I searched in the archives I should find that Tilling had the monopoly of supplying the Royal table, and that the right has never been revoked. If so, I should think a petition to the King: ‘Your Majesty's loyal subjects of Tilling humbly pray that this privilege be restored to them.' Or perhaps some preliminary inquiries from the Directors of the Southern Railway first. Such prestige. And a steady demand would be a wonderful thing for the fishing industry.'

‘It's got enough demand already,' said Georgie. ‘There isn't too much fish for us here as it is.'

‘Georgie! Where's your political economy? Demand invariably leads to supply. There would be more fishing-smacks built, more men would follow the sea. Unemployment would diminish. Think of Yarmouth and its immense trade. How I should like to capture some of it for our Tilling! I mustn't lose sight of that among all the schemes I ponder over so constantly … But I've had a busy day: let us relax a little and make music in the garden-room.'

She rose, and her voice assumed a careless lightness. ‘I saw to-day,' she said, ‘in one of my old bound-up volumes of duets, an arrangement for four hands of Glazonov's “Bacchanal”. It looked rather attractive. We might run through it.'

Georgie had seen it, too, a week ago, and though most of Lucia's music was familiar, he felt sure they had never tried
this. He had had a bad cold in the head, and, not being up to their usual walk for a day or two, he had played over the bass part several times while Lucia was out taking her exercise: some day it might come in useful. Then this very afternoon, busy in the garden, he had heard a long-continued soft-pedalled tinkle, and rightly conjectured that Lucia was stealing a march on him in the treble part … Out they went to the garden-room, and Lucia found the ‘Bacchanal'. His new suit made him feel very kindly disposed.

‘You must take the treble, then,' he said. ‘I could never read that.'

‘How lazy of you, dear,' she said, instantly sitting down. ‘Well, I'll try if you insist, but you mustn't scold me if I make a mess of it.'

It went beautifully. Odd trains of thought coursed through the heads of both. ‘Why is she such a hypocrite?' he wondered. ‘She was practising it half the afternoon.' … Simultaneously Lucia was saying to herself, ‘Georgie can't be reading it. He must have tried it before.' At the end were mutual congratulations: each thought that the other had read it wonderfully well. Then bedtime. She kissed her hand to him as she closed her bedroom door, and Georgie made a few revolutions in front of his mirror before divesting himself of the new suit. By a touching transference of emotions, Lucia had vivid dreams of heaving seas of ruby-coloured velvet, and Georgie of the new Cunard liner,
Queen Mary
, running aground in the river on a monstrous shoal of whiting and lobsters.

There was an early autumnal frost in the night, though not severe enough to blacken the superb dahlias in Lucia's garden and soon melting. The lawn was covered with pearly moisture when she and Georgie met at breakfast, and the red roofs of Tilling gleamed bright in the morning sun. Lucia had already engaged a shorthand and typewriting secretary to get used to her duties before the heavy Mayoral correspondence began to pour in, but to-day the post brought nothing but a few circulars at once committed to the waste-paper basket. But it would not do to leave Mrs Simpson completely idle, so, before setting
out for the morning marketing, Lucia dictated invitations to Mrs Bartlett and the Padre, to Susan and Mr Wyse, to Elizabeth Mapp-Flint and Major Benjy for dinner and bridge the following night. She would write in the invocations and signatures when she returned, and she apologized in each letter for the stress of work which had prevented her from writing with her own hand throughout.

‘Georgie, I shall have to learn typing myself,' she said as they started. ‘I can easily imagine some municipal crisis which would swamp Mrs Simpson, quick worker though she is. Or isn't there a machine called the dictaphone? … How deliciously warm the sun is! When we get back I shall make a water-colour sketch of my dahlias in the
giardino segreto.
Any night might see them blackened, and I should deplore not having a record of them.
Ecco,
there's Irene beckoning to us from her window. Something about the fresco, I expect.'

Irene Coles bounced out into the street.

‘Lucia, beloved one,' she cried. ‘It's too cruel! That lousy Town Surveying Department refuses to sanction my fresco-design of Venus rising from the sea. Come into my studio and look at my sketch of it, which they have sent back to me. Goths and Vandals and Mrs Grundys to a man and woman!'

The sketch was very striking. A nude, well-nourished, putty-coloured female, mottled with green shadows, was balanced on an oyster-shell, while a prize-fighter, representing the wind and sprawling across the sky, propelled her with puffed cheeks up a river towards a red-roofed town on the shore which presented Tilling with Pre-Raphaelite fidelity.

‘Dear me! Quite Botticellian!' said Lucia.

‘What?' screamed Irene. ‘Darling, how can you compare my great deep-bosomed Venus, fit to be the mother of heroes, with Botticelli's anaemic flapper? What'll the next generation in Tilling be like when my Venus gets ashore?'

‘Yes. Quite. So vigorous! So allegorical!' said Lucia. ‘But, dear Irene, do you want everybody to be reminded of that whenever they go up and down the street?'

‘Why not? What can be nobler than Motherhood?' asked Irene.

‘Nothing! Nothing!' Lucia assured her. ‘For a maternity home –'

Irene picked up her sketch and tore it across.

‘I know what I shall do,' she said. ‘I shall turn my wondrous Hellenic goddess into a Victorian mother. I shall dress her in a tartan shawl and skirt and a bonnet with a bow underneath her chin and button-boots and a parasol. I shall give my lusty South Wind a frock-coat and trousers and a top-hat, and send the design back to that foul-minded Department asking if I have now removed all objectionable features. Georgie, when next you come to see me, you won't need to blush.'

‘I haven't blushed once!' said Georgie indignantly. ‘How can you tell such fibs?'

‘Dear Irene is so full of vitality,' said Lucia as they regained the street. ‘Such ozone! She always makes me feel as if I was out in a high wind, and I wonder if my hair is coming down. But so easily managed with a little tact – Ah! There's Diva at her window. We might pop in on her for a minute, and I'll break it to her about a state-opening for her tea-rooms … Take care, Georgie! There's Susan's Royce plunging down on us.'