The Complete Mapp & Lucia (123 page)

‘It all worked without a hitch,’ she said as she told him of the plots and counter-plots which had woven so brilliant a tapestry of events. ‘And it was that letter of Mrs Brocklebank’s which you sent me that clapped the lid on Elizabeth. I saw at once what I could make of it. Really, Georgie, I turned it into a stroke of genius.’

‘But it was a stroke of genius already,’ said Georgie. ‘You only had to copy it out and send it to the Contessa.’

Lucia was slightly ashamed of having taken the supreme credit for herself: the habit was hard to get rid of.

‘My dear, all the credit shall be yours then,’ she said handsomely. ‘It was your stroke of genius. I copied it out very carelessly as if I had scribbled it off without thought. That was a nice touch, don’t you think? The effect? Colossal, so Irene tells me, for I could not be there myself. That was only yesterday. A few desperate wriggles from Elizabeth, but of course no good. I do not suppose there was a more thoroughly thwarted woman in all Sussex than she.’

Georgie gave a discreet little giggle.

‘And what’s so terribly amusing is that she was right all the time about your influenza and your Italian and everything,’ he said. ‘Perfectly maddening for her.’

Lucia sighed pensively.

‘Georgie, she was malicious,’ she observed, ‘and that never pays.’

‘Besides, it serves her right for spying on you,’ Georgie continued.

‘Yes, poor thing. But I shall begin now at once to be kind to her again. She shall come to lunch tomorrow, and you of course. By the way, Georgie, Irene takes so much interest in your painting. It was news to me, for her style is so different from your beautiful, careful work.’

‘No! That’s news to me too,’ said Georgie. ‘She never seemed to see my sketches before: they might have been blank sheets of paper. Does she mean it? She’s not pulling my leg?’

‘Nothing of the sort. And I couldn’t help thinking it was a great opportunity for you to learn something about more modern methods. There is something you know in those fierce canvases of hers.’

‘I wish she had told me sooner,’ said Georgie. ‘We’ve only got a fortnight more here. I shall be very sorry when it’s over, for I felt terribly pleased to be getting back to Tilling this morning. It’ll be dull going back to Riseholme. Don’t you feel that too? I’m sure you must. No plots: no competition.’

Lucia had just received a telegram from Adele concerning the purchase of the Hurst, and it was no use putting off the staggering moment. She felt as if she was Zeus about to discharge a thunderbolt on some unhappy mortal.

‘Georgie, I’m not going back to Riseholme at all,’ she said. ‘I have sold the Hurst: Adele Brixton has bought it. And, practically, I’ve bought that white house with the beautiful garden, which we admired so much, and that view over the marsh (how I thought of you at sunset yesterday), and really charming rooms with character.’

Georgie sat open-mouthed, and all expression vanished from his face. It became as blank as a piece of sunburnt paper. Then slowly, as if he was coming round from an anaesthetic while the surgeon was still carving dexterously at living tissue, a look of intolerable anguish came into his face.

‘But Foljambe, Cadman!’ he cried. ‘Foljambe can’t come back here every night from Riseholme. What am I to do? Is it all irrevocable?’

Lucia bridled. She was quite aware that this parting (if there was to be one) between him and Foljambe would be a dagger; but it was surprising, to say the least, that the thought of the parting between herself and him should not have administered him the first shock. However, there it was. Foljambe first by all means.

‘I knew parting from Foljambe would be a great blow to you,’ she said, with an acidity that Georgie could hardly fail to notice. ‘What a pity that row you told me about came to nothing! But I am afraid that I can’t promise to live in Riseholme for ever in order that you may not lose your parlourmaid.’

‘But it’s not only that,’ said Georgie, aware of this acidity and hastening to sweeten it. ‘There’s you as well. It will be ditchwater at Riseholme without you.’

‘Thank you, Georgie,’ said Lucia. ‘I wondered if and when, as the lawyers say, you would think of that. No reason why you should, of course.’

Georgie felt that this was an unjust reproach.

‘Well, after all, you settled to live in Tilling,’ he retorted, ‘and said nothing about how dull it would be without me. And I’ve got to do without Foljambe as well.’

Lucia had recourse to the lowest artifice.

‘Georgie-orgie, ‘oo not cwoss with me?’ she asked in an innocent, childish voice.

Georgie was not knocked out by this sentimental stroke below the belt. It was like Lucia to settle everything in exactly the way that suited her best, and then expect her poor pawns to be stricken at the thought of losing their queen. Besides, the loss of Foljambe
had
occurred to him first. Comfort, like charity, began at home.

‘No, I’m not cross,’ he said, utterly refusing to adopt baby-talk which implied surrender. ‘But I’ve got every right to be hurt with you for settling to live in Tilling and not saying a word about how you would miss me.’

‘My dear, I knew you would take that for granted,’ began Lucia.

‘Then why shouldn’t you take it for granted about me?’ he observed.

‘I ought to have,’ she said. ‘I confess it, so that’s all right. But why don’t you leave Riseholme too and settle here, Georgie? Foljambe, me, your career, now that Irene is so keen about your pictures, and this marvellous sense of not knowing what’s going to happen next. Such stimulus, such stuff to keep the soul awake. And you don’t want to go back to Riseholme: you said so yourself. You’d moulder and vegetate there.’

‘It’s different for you,’ said Georgie. ‘You’ve sold your house and I haven’t sold mine. But there it is: I shall go back, I suppose, without Foljambe or you—I mean you or Foljambe. I wish I had never come here at all. It was that week when we went back for the fête, leaving Cadman and her here, which did all the mischief.’

There was no use in saying anything more at present, and Georgie, feeling himself the victim of an imperious friend and of a faithless parlourmaid, went sadly back to Mallards Cottage. Lucia had settled to leave Riseholme without the least thought of what injury she inflicted on him by depriving him at one fell blow of Foljambe and her own companionship. He was almost sorry he had sent her that wonderful Brocklebank letter, for she had been in a very tight place, especially when Miss Mapp had actually seen her stripped and skipping in the garden as a cure for influenza; and had he not, by his stroke of genius, come to her rescue, her reputation here might have suffered an irretrievable eclipse, and they might all have gone back to Riseholme together. As it was, he had established her on the most exalted pinnacle and her thanks for that boon were expressed by dealing this beastly blow at him.

He threw himself down, in deep dejection, on the sofa in the little parlour of Mallards Cottage, in which he had been so comfortable. Life at Tilling had been full of congenial pleasures, and what a spice all these excitements had added to it! He had done a lot of painting, endless subjects still awaited his brush, and it had given him a thrill of delight to know that quaint Irene, with all her modern notions about art, thought highly of his work. Then there was the diversion of observing and nobly assisting in Lucia’s campaign for the sovereignty, and her wars, as he knew, were far from won yet, for Tilling certainly had grown restive under her patronizings and acts of autocracy, and there was probably life in the old dog (meaning Elizabeth Mapp) yet. It was dreadful to think that he would not witness the campaign that was now being planned in those Napoleonic brains. These few weeks that remained to him here would be blackened by the thought of the wretched future that awaited him, and there would be no savour in them, for in so short a time now he would go back to Riseholme in a state of the most pitiable widowerhood, deprived of the ministering care of Foljambe, who all these years had made him so free from household anxieties, and of the companion who had spurred him on to ambitions and activities. Though he had lain awake shuddering at the thought that perhaps Lucia expected him to marry her, he felt he would almost sooner have done that than lose her altogether. ‘It may be better to have loved and lost,’ thought Georgie, ‘than never to have loved at all, but it’s very poor work not having loved and also to have lost’…

There was Foljambe singing in a high buzzing voice as she unpacked his luggage in his room upstairs, and though it was a rancid noise, how often had it filled him with the liveliest satisfaction, for Foljambe seldom sang, and when she did, it meant that she was delighted with her lot in life and was planning fresh efforts for his comfort. Now, no doubt, she was planning all sorts of pleasures for Cadman, and not thinking of him at all. Then there was Lucia: through his open window he could already hear the piano in the garden-room, and that showed a horrid callousness to his miserable plight. She didn’t care; she was rolling on like the moon or the car of Juggernaut. It was heartless of her to occupy herself with those gay tinkling tunes, but the fact was that she was odiously selfish, and cared about nothing but her own successes… He abstracted himself from those painful reflections for a moment and listened more attentively. It was clearly Mozart that she was practising, but the melody was new to him. ‘I bet,’ thought Georgie, ‘that this evening or tomorrow, she’ll ask me to read over a new Mozart, and it’ll be that very piece that she’s practising now.’

His bitterness welled up within him again, as that pleasing reflection faded from his mind, and almost involuntarily he began to revolve how he could pay her back for her indifference to him. A dark but brilliant thought (like a black pearl) occurred to him. What if he dismissed his own chauffeur, Dickie, at present in the employment of his tenant at Riseholme, and, by a prospect of a rise in wages, seduced Cadman from Lucia’s service, and took him and Foljambe back to Riseholme? He would put into practise the plan that Lucia herself had suggested, of establishing them in a cottage of their own, with a charwoman, so that Foljambe’s days should be his, and her nights Cadman’s. That would be a nasty one for Lucia, and the idea was feasible, for Cadman didn’t think much of Tilling, and might easily fall in with it. But hardly had this devilish device occurred to him than his better nature rose in revolt against it. It would serve Lucia right, it is true, but it was unworthy of him. ‘I should be descending to her level,’ thought Georgie very nobly, ‘if I did such a thing. Besides, how awful it would be if Cadman said no, and then told her that I had tempted him. She would despise me for doing it, as much as I despise her, and she would gloat over me for having failed. It won’t do. I must be more manly about it all somehow. I must be like Major Benjy and say “Damn the woman! Faugh!” and have a drink. But I feel sick at the idea of going back to Riseholme alone… I wish I had eyebrows like a paste-brush, and could say damn properly.’

With a view to being more manly he poured himself out a very small whisky and soda, and his eye fell on a few letters lying for him on the table, which must have come that morning. There was one with the Riseholme postmark, and the envelope was of that very bright blue which he always used. His own stationery evidently, of which he had left a supply, without charge, for the use of his tenant. He opened it, and behold there was dawn breaking on his dark life, for Colonel Cresswell wanted to know if he had any thoughts of selling his house. He was much taken by Riseholme, his sister had bought the Hurst, and he would like to be near her. Would Georgie therefore let him have a line about this as soon as possible, for there was another house, Mrs Quantock’s, about which he would enter into negotiations, if there was no chance of getting Georgie’s…

The revulsion of feeling was almost painful. Georgie had another whisky and soda at once, not because he was depressed, but because he was so happy. ‘But I mustn’t make a habit of it,’ he thought, as he seized his pen.

Georgie’s first impulse when he had written his letter to Colonel Cresswell was to fly round to Mallards with this wonderful news, but now he hesitated. Some hitch might arise, the price Colonel Cresswell proposed might not come up to his expectations, though—God knew—he would not dream of haggling over any reasonable offer. Lucia would rejoice at the chance of his staying in Tilling but she did not deserve to have such a treat of pleasurable expectation for the present. Besides, though he had been manly enough to reject with scorn the wiles of the devil who had suggested the seduction of Cadman, he thought he would tease her a little even if his dream came true. He had often told her that if he was rich enough he would have a flat in London, and now, if this sale of his house came off, he would pretend that he was not meaning to live in Tilling at all, but would live in town, and he would see how she would take that. It would be her turn to be hurt, and serve her right. So instead of interrupting the roulades of Mozart that were pouring from the window of the garden-room, he walked briskly down to the High Street to see how Tilling was taking the news that it would have Lucia always with it, if her purchase of Grebe had become public property. If not, he would have the pleasure of disseminating it.

There was a hint of seafaring about Georgie’s costume as befitted one who had lately spent so much time on the pier at Folkestone. He had a very nautical-looking cap, with a black shining brim, a dark-blue double-breasted coat, white trousers and smart canvas shoes: really he might have been supposed to have come up to Tilling in his yacht, and have landed to see the town… A piercing whistle from the other side of the street showed him that his appearance had at once attracted attention, and there was Irene planted with her easel in the middle of the pavement, and painting a row of flayed carcasses that hung in the butcher’s shop. Rembrandt had better look out…

‘Avast there, Georgie,’ she cried. ‘Home is the sailor, home from sea. Come and talk.’