The Complete Mapp & Lucia (127 page)

She slid her chair a little farther back behind the curtain, feeling sure that the car would stop next at her own door. But it turned the corner below the window without drawing up, and Elizabeth got a fleeting glance into the interior, where Lucia was sitting with a large book open in her lap. Next it stopped at Mallards Cottage: no note was delivered there, but Cadman rang the bell, and presently Georgie came out. Like Irene, he talked for quite a long time into the window of the car, but, unlike her, did not kiss anything at the conclusion of the interview. The situation was therefore perfectly clear: Lucia had asked Irene and Major Benjy and Georgie and probably the Wyses to some entertainment, no doubt the house-warming of which there had been rumours, but had not asked her. Very well. The relations with foreign powers therefore had suddenly become far from satisfactory.

Elizabeth quitted her seat in the window, for she had observed enough to supply her with plenty of food for thought, and went back, in perfect self-control, to the inspection of her household books; adding up figures was a purely mechanical matter, which allowed the intenser emotions full play. Georgie would be coming in here presently, for he was painting a sketch of the interior of the garden-room; this was to be his Christmas present to Lucia (a surprise, about which she was to know nothing), to remind her of the happy days she had spent in it. He usually left his sketch here, for it was not worth while to take it backwards and forwards, and there it stood, propped up on the bookcase. He had first tried an Irene-ish technique, but he had been obliged to abandon that, since the garden-room with this handling persisted in looking like Paddington Station in a fog, and he had gone back to the style he knew, in which bookcases, chairs and curtains were easily recognizable. It needed a few mornings’ work yet, and now the idea of destroying it, and, when he arrived, of telling him that she was quite sure he had taken it back with him yesterday darted unbidden into Elizabeth’s mind. But she rejected it, though it would have been pleasant to deprive Lucia of her Christmas present… and she did not believe for a moment that she had ordered a dozen eggs on Tuesday and a dozen more on Thursday. The butcher’s bill seemed to be correct, though extortionate, and she must find out as soon as possible whether the Padre and his wife and Diva were asked to Grebe too. If they were—but she banished the thought of what was to be done if they were: it was difficult enough to know what to do even if they weren’t.

The books were quickly done, and Elizabeth went back to finish reading the morning paper in the window. Just as she got there Georgie, with his little cape over his shoulders and his paint-box in his hand, came stepping briskly along from Mallards Cottage. Simultaneously Lucia’s great bumping car returned round the corner by the churchyard, in the direction of Mallards.

An inspiration of purest ray serene seized Elizabeth. She waited till Georgie had rung the front-door bell, at which psychological moment Lucia’s car was straight below the window. Without a second’s hesitation Elizabeth threw up the sash, and, without appearing to see Lucia at all, called out to Georgie in a high cheerful voice, using baby-language.

”Oo is very naughty boy, Georgie!’ she cried. ‘Never ring Elizabeth’s belly-pelly. ‘Oo walk straight in always, and sing out for her. There’s no chain up.’

Georgie looked round in amazement. Never had Elizabeth called him Georgie before, or talked to him in the language consecrated for his use and Lucia’s. And there was Lucia’s car close to him. She must have heard this affectionate welcome, and what would she think? But there was nothing to do but to go in.

Still without seeing (far less cutting) Lucia, Elizabeth closed the window again, positively dazzled by her own brilliance. An hour’s concentrated thought could not have suggested to her anything that Lucia would dislike more thoroughly than hearing that gay little speech, which parodied her and revealed such playful intimacy with Georgie. Georgie came straight out to the garden-room, saying ‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth’ to himself below his breath, in order to get used to it, for he must return this token of friendship in kind.

‘Good morning, Elizabeth,’ he said firmly (and the worst was over until such time as he had to say it again in Lucia’s presence).

‘Good morning, Georgie,’ she said by way of confirmation. ‘What a lovely light for your painting this morning. Here it is ready for you, and Withers will bring you out your glass of water. How you’ve caught the feel of my dear little room!’

Another glance out of the window as she brought him his sketch was necessary, and she gasped. There was Cadman on the doorstep just handing Withers a note. In another minute she came into the garden-room.

‘From Mrs Lucas,’ she said. ‘She forgot to leave it when she went by before.’

‘That’s about the house-warming, I’m sure,’ said Georgie, getting his paint-box ready.

What was done, was done, and there was no use in thinking about that. Elizabeth tore the note open.

‘A house-warming?’ she said. ‘Dear Lucia! What a treat that will be. Yes, you’re quite right.’

‘She’s sending her car up for the Padre and his wife and Irene and Mrs Plaistow,’ said Georgie, ‘and asked me just now if I would bring you and Major Benjy. Naturally I will.’

Elizabeth’s brilliant speech out of the window had assumed the aspect of a gratuitous act of war. But she could not have guessed that Lucia had merely forgotten to leave her invitation. The most charitable would have assumed that there was no invitation to leave.

‘How kind of you!’ she said. ‘Tomorrow night, isn’t it? Rather short notice. I must see if I’m disengaged.’

As Lucia had asked the whole of the élite of Tilling, this proved to be the case. But Elizabeth still pondered as to whether she should accept or not. She had committed one unfriendly act in talking baby-language to Georgie, with a pointed allusion to the door-chain, literally over Lucia’s head, and it was a question whether, having done that, it would not be wise to commit another (while Lucia, it might be guessed, was still staggering) by refusing to go to the house-warming. She did not doubt that there would be war before long: the only question was if she was ready now.

As she was pondering Withers came in to say that Major Benjy had called. He would not come out into the garden-room, but he would like to speak to her a minute.

‘Evidently he has heard that Georgie is here,’ thought Elizabeth to herself as she hurried into the house. ‘Dear me, how men quarrel with each other, and I only want to be on good terms with everybody. No doubt he wants to know if I’m going to the house-warming—Good morning, Major Benjy.’

‘Thought I wouldn’t come out,’ said this bluff fellow, ‘as I heard your Miss Milliner Michael-Angelo, ha, was with you—’

‘Oh Major Benjy, fie!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Cruel of you.’

‘Well, leave it at that. Now about this party tomorrow. I think I shall make a stand straight away, for I’m not going to spend the whole of the winter evenings tramping through the mud to Grebe. To be sure it’s dinner this time, which makes a difference.’

Elizabeth found that she longed to see what Lucia had made of Grebe, and what she had made of her speech from the window.

‘I quite agree in principle,’ she said, ‘but a house-warming, you know. Perhaps it wouldn’t be kind to refuse. Besides, Georgie—’

‘Eh?’ said the Major.

‘Mr Pillson, I mean,’ said Elizabeth, hastily correcting herself, ‘has offered to drive us both down.’

‘And back?’ asked he suspiciously.

‘Of course. So just for once, shall we?’

‘Very good. But none of those after-dinner musicals, or lessons in bridge for me.’

‘Oh, Major Benjy!’ said Elizabeth. ‘How can you talk so? As if poor Lucia would attempt to teach
you
bridge.’

This could be taken in two ways, one interpretation would read that he was incapable of learning, the other that Lucia was incapable of teaching. He took the more obvious one.

‘Upon my soul she did, at the last game I had with her,’ said he. ‘Laid out the last three tricks and told me how to play them. Beyond a joke. Well, I won’t keep you from your dressmaker.’

‘O fie!’ said Elizabeth again. ‘Au reservoir.’

Lucia, meantime, had driven back to Grebe with that mocking voice still ringing in her ears, and a series of most unpleasant images, like some diabolical film, displaying themselves before her inward eye. Most probably Elizabeth had seen her when she called out to Georgie like that, and was intentionally insulting her. Such conduct called for immediate reprisals and she must presently begin to think these out. But the alternative, possible though not probable, that Elizabeth had not seen her, was infinitely more wounding, for it implied that Georgie was guilty of treacheries too black to bear looking at. Privately, when she herself was not present, he was on Christian-name terms with that woman, and permitted and enjoyed her obvious mimicry of herself. And what was Georgie doing popping in to Mallards like this, and being scolded in baby-voice for ringing the bell instead of letting himself in, with allusions of an absolutely unmistakable kind to that episode about the chain? Did they laugh over that together: did Georgie poke fun at his oldest friend behind her back? Lucia positively writhed at the thought. In any case, whether or not he was guilty of this monstrous infidelity, he must be in the habit of going into Mallards, and now she remembered that he had his paint-box in his hand. Clearly then he was going there to paint, and in all their talks when he so constantly told her what he had been doing, he had never breathed a word of that. Perhaps he was painting Elizabeth, for in this winter weather he could never be painting in the garden. Just now too, when she called at Mallards Cottage, and they had had a talk together, he had refused to go out and drive with her, because he had some little jobs to do indoors, and the moment he had got rid of her—no less than that—he had hurried off to Mallards with his paint-box. With all this evidence, things looked very dark indeed, and the worst and most wounding of these two alternatives began to assume probability.

Georgie was coming to tea with her that afternoon, and she must find out what the truth of the matter was. But she could not imagine herself saying to him: ‘Does she really call you Georgie, and does she imitate me behind my back, and are you painting her?’ Pride absolutely forbade that: such humiliating inquiries would choke her. Should she show him an icy aloof demeanour, until he asked her if anything was the matter? But that wouldn’t do, for either she must say that nothing was the matter, which would not help, or she must tell him what the matter was, which was impossible. She must behave to him exactly as usual, and he would probably do the same. ‘So how am I to find out?’ said the bewildered Lucia quite aloud.

Another extremely uncomfortable person in tranquil Tilling that morning was Georgie himself. As he painted this sketch of the garden-room for Lucia, with Elizabeth busying herself with dusting her piano and bringing in chrysanthemums from her greenhouse, and making bright little sarcasms about Diva who was in ill odour just now, there painted itself in his mind, in colours growing ever more vivid, a most ominous picture of Lucia. If he knew her at all, and he was sure he did, she would say nothing whatever about that disconcerting scene on the doorstep. Awkward as it would be, he would be obliged to protest his innocence, and denounce Elizabeth. Most disagreeable, and who could foresee the consequences? For Lucia (if he knew her) would see red, and there would be war. Bloody war of the most devastating sort. ‘But it will be rather exciting too,’ thought he, ‘and I back Lucia.’

Georgie could not wait for tea-time, but set forth on his uncomfortable errand soon after lunch. Lucia had seen him coming up the garden, and abandoned her musings and sat down hastily at the piano. Instantly on his entry she sprang up again, and plunged into mixed Italian and baby-talk.

‘Ben arrivato, Georgino,’
she cried. ‘How early you are, and so we can have cosy ickle chat-chat before tea. Any newsy-pewsy?’

Georgie took the plunge.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Tell Lucia, presto. ‘Oo think me like it?’

‘It’ll interest you,’ said Georgie guardedly. ‘Now! When I was standing on Mallards doorstep this morning, did you hear what that old witch called to me out of the garden-room window?’

Lucia could not repress a sigh of relief. The worst could not be true. Then she became herself again.

‘Let me see now!’ she said. ‘Yes. I think I did. She called you Georgie, didn’t she: she scolded you for ringing. Something of that sort.’

‘Yes. And she talked baby-talk like you and me,’ interrupted Georgie, ‘and she said the door wasn’t on the chain. I want to tell you straight off that she never called me Georgie before, and that we’ve never talked baby-talk together in my life. I owe it to myself to tell you that.’

Lucia turned her piercing eye on to Georgie. There seemed to be a sparkle in it that boded ill for somebody.

‘And you think she saw me, Georgie?’ she asked.

‘Of course she did. Your car was directly below her window.’

‘I am afraid there is no doubt about it,’ said Lucia. ‘Her remarks, therefore, seem to have been directed at me. A singularly ill-bred person. There’s one thing more. You were taking your paint-box with you—’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said he. ‘I’m doing a sketch of the garden-room. You’ll know about that in time. And what are you going to do?’ he asked greedily.

Lucia laughed in her most musical manner.

‘Well, first of all I shall give her a very good dinner tomorrow, as she has not had the decency to say she was engaged. She telephoned to me just now telling me what a joy it would be, and how she was looking forward to it. And mind you call her Elizabeth.’

‘I’ve done that already,’ said Georgie proudly. ‘I practised saying it to myself.’

‘Good. She dines here then tomorrow night, and I shall be her hostess and shall make the evening as pleasant as I can to all my guests. But apart from that, Georgie, I shall take steps to teach her manners if she’s not too old to learn. She will be sorry; she will wish she had not been so rude. And I can’t see any objection to our other friends in Tilling knowing what occurred this morning, if you feel inclined to speak of it. I shan’t, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.’