The Complete Mapp & Lucia (130 page)

‘Same to you,’ said Irene.

There was undoubtedly, thought Mapp, as she scudded swiftly homewards alone, a sort of mocking note about quaint Irene’s conversation, which she did not relish. It was full of hints and awkward allusions; it bristled with hidden menace, and even her imitation of Lucia’s baby-talk was not wholly satisfactory, for quaint Irene might be mimicking her imitation of Lucia, even as Lucia herself had done, and there was very little humour in that. Presently she passed the Wyses’ Royce going to Grebe. She kissed her hand to a mound of sables inside, but it was too dark to see if the salute was returned. Her brisk afternoon’s walk had not freshened her up; she was aware of a feeling of fatigue, of a vague depression and anxiety. And mixed with that was a hunger not only for tea but for more information. There seemed to be things going on of which she was sadly ignorant, and even when her ignorance was enlightened, they remained rather sad. But Diva (such a gossip) might know more about this winter exhibition, and she popped into Wasters. Diva was in, and begged her to wait for tea: she would be down in a few minutes.

It was a cosy little room, looking out on to the garden which had yielded her so many pots of excellent preserves during the summer, but dreadfully untidy, as Diva’s house always was. There was a litter of papers on the table, notes half-thrust back into their envelopes, crossword puzzles cut out from the
Evening Standard
and partially solved: there was her own post card to Diva sent off that morning and already delivered, and there was a sheet of paper with the stamp of Grebe upon it and Lucia’s monogram, which seemed to force itself on Elizabeth’s eye. The most cursory glance revealed that this was a request from the Art Committee that Mrs Plaistow would do them the honour to send them a couple of her sketches for the forthcoming winter exhibition. All the time there came from Diva’s bedroom, directly overhead, the sound of rhythmical steps or thumps, most difficult to explain. In a few minutes these ceased, and Diva’s tread on the stairs gave Elizabeth sufficient warning to enable her to snatch up the first book that came to hand, and sink into a chair by the fire. She saw, with some feeling of apprehension similar to those which had haunted her all afternoon, that this was a copy of
An Ideal System of Callisthenics for those no longer Young,
of which she seemed to have heard. On the title-page was an inscription ‘Diva from Lucia’, and in brackets, like a prescription, ‘Ten minutes at the exercises in Chapter I, twice a day for the present.’

Diva entered very briskly. She was redder in the face than usual, and, so Elizabeth instantly noticed, lifted her feet very high as she walked, and held her head well back and her breast out like a fat little pigeon. This time there was to be no question about getting a word in edgeways, for she began to talk before the door was fully open.

‘Glad to see you, Elizabeth,’ she said, ‘and I shall be very pleased to play bridge on Saturday. I’ve never felt so well in my life, do you know, and I’ve only been doing them two days. Oh, I see you’ve got the book.’

‘I heard you stamping and thumping, dear,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Was that them?’

‘Yes, twice a day, ten minutes each time. It clears the head, too. If you sit down to a crossword puzzle afterwards you find you’re much brighter than usual.’

‘Callisthenics
à la Lucia?’
asked Elizabeth.

‘Yes. Irene and Mrs Bartlett and I all do them, and Mrs Wyse is going to begin, but rather more gently. Hasn’t Lucia told you about them?’

Here was another revelation of things happening. Elizabeth met it bravely.

‘No. Dear Lulu knows my feelings about that sort of fad. A brisk walk such as I’ve had this afternoon is all I require. Such lovely lights of sunset and a very high tide. Quaint Irene was sketching on the road just beyond Grebe.’

‘Yes. She’s going to send it in and three more for the winter exhibition. Oh, perhaps you haven’t heard. There’s to be an exhibition directly after Christmas.’

‘Such a good idea: I’ve been discussing it,’ said Elizabeth.

Diva’s eye travelled swiftly and suspiciously to the table where this flattering request to her lay on the top of the litter. Elizabeth did not fail to catch the significance of this.

‘Irene told me,’ she said hastily, ‘I must see if I can find time to do them something.’

‘Oh, then they have asked you,’ said Diva with a shade of disappointment in her voice. ‘They’ve asked me too—’

‘No! Really?’ said Elizabeth.

‘—so of course I said yes, but I’m afraid I’m rather out of practice. Lucia is going to give an address on modern art at the opening, and then we shall all go round and look at each other’s pictures.’

‘What fun!’ said Elizabeth cordially.

Tea had been brought in. There was a pot of greenish jam and Elizabeth loaded her buttered toast with it, and put it into her mouth. She gave a choking cry and washed it down with a gulp of tea.

‘Anything wrong?’ asked Diva.

‘Yes, dear. I’m afraid it’s fermenting,’ said Elizabeth, laying down the rest of her toast. ‘And I can’t conceive what it’s made of.’

Diva looked at the pot.

‘You ought to know,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the pots you gave me. Labelled vegetable marrow. So sorry it’s not eatable. By the way, talking of food, did Lucia send you the recipe for the lobster?’

Elizabeth smiled her sweetest.

‘Dear Lucia,’ she said. ‘She’s been so busy with art and callisthenics. She must have forgotten. I shall jog her memory.’

The afternoon had been full of rather unpleasant surprises, thought Elizabeth to herself, as she went up to Mallards that evening. They were concerned with local activities, art and gymnastics, of which she had hitherto heard nothing, and they all seemed to show a common origin: there was a hidden hand directing them. This was disconcerting, especially since, only a few nights ago, she had felt so sure that that hand had been upraised to her, beseeching pardon. Now it rather looked as if that hand had spirited itself away and was very busy and energetic on its own account.

She paused on her doorstep. There was a light shining out through chinks behind the curtains in Mallards Cottage, and she thought it would be a good thing to pop in on Georgie and see if she could gather some further gleanings. She would make herself extremely pleasant: she would admire his needlework if he was at it, she would praise the beautiful specklessness of his room, for Georgie always appreciated any compliment to Foljambe, she would sing the praises of Lucia, though they blistered her tongue.

Foljambe admitted her. The door of the sitting-room was ajar, and as she put down her umbrella, she heard Georgie’s voice talking to the telephone.

‘Saturday, half-past four,’ he said. ‘I’ve just found a post card. Hasn’t she asked you?’

Georgie, as Elizabeth had often observed, was deafer than he knew (which accounted for his not hearing all the wrong notes she played in his duets with Lucia) and he had not heard her entry, though Foljambe spoke her name quite loud. He was listening with rapt attention to what was coming through and saying ‘My dear!’ or ‘No!’ at intervals. Now, however, he turned and saw her, and with a scared expression hung up the receiver.

‘Dear me, I never heard you come in!’ he said. ‘How nice! I was just going to tell Foljambe to bring up tea. Two cups, Foljambe.’

‘I’m interrupting you,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I can see you were just settling down to your sewing and a cosy bachelor evening.’

‘Not a bit,’ said Georgie. ‘Do have a chair near the fire.’ It was not necessary to explain that she had already had tea with Diva, even if one mouthful of fermenting vegetable could properly be called tea, and she took the chair he pulled up for her.

‘Such beautiful work,’ she said, looking at Georgie’s tambour of
petit point,
which lay near by. ‘What eyes you must have to be able to do it.’

‘Yes, they’re pretty good yet,’ said Georgie, slipping his spectacle-case into his pocket. ‘And I shall be delighted to come to tea and bridge on Saturday. Thanks so much. Just got your invitation.’

Miss Mapp knew that already.

‘That’s charming,’ she said. ‘And how I envy you your Foljambe. Not a speck of dust anywhere. You could eat your tea off the floor, as they say.’

Georgie noticed that she did not use his Christian name. This confirmed his belief that the employment of it was reserved for Lucia’s presence as an annoyance to her. Then the telephone-bell rang again.

‘May I?’ said Georgie.

He went across to it, rather nervous. It was as he thought: Lucia was at it again, explaining that somebody had cut her off. Listen as she might, Miss Mapp, from where she sat, could only hear a confused quacking noise. So to show how indifferent she was as to the conversation, she put her fingers close to her ears ready to stop them when Georgie turned round again, and listened hard to what he said.

‘Yes… yes,’ said Georgie. ‘Thanks so much—lovely. I’ll pick him up then, shall I? Quarter to eight, is it? Yes, her too. Yes, I’ve done them once to-day: not a bit giddy… I can’t stop now, Lucia. Miss Ma—Elizabeth’s just come in for a cup of tea… I’ll tell her.’

Elizabeth felt she understood all this; she was an adept at telephonic reconstruction. There was evidently another party at Grebe. ‘Him’ and ‘her’ no doubt were Major Benjy and herself, whom Georgie would pick up as before. ‘Them’ were exercises, and Georgie’s promise to tell ‘her’ clearly meant that he should convey an invitation. This was satisfactory: evidently Lucia was hoping to propitiate. Then Georgie turned round and saw Elizabeth smiling gaily at the fire with her hands over her ears. He moved into her field of vision and she uncorked herself.

‘Finished?’ she said. ‘Hope you did not cut it short because of me.’

‘Not at all,’ said Georgie, for she couldn’t (unless she was pretending) have heard him say that he had done precisely that. ‘It was Lucia ringing up. She sends you her love.’

‘Sweet of her, such a pet,’ said Elizabeth, and waited for more about picking up and that invitation. But Lucia’s love appeared to be all, and Georgie asked her if she took sugar. She did, and tried if he in turn would take another sort of sugar, both for himself and Lucia.

‘Such a lovely house-warming,’ she said, ‘and how we all enjoyed ourselves. Lucia seems to have time for everything, bridge, those lovely duets with you, Italian, Greek (though we haven’t heard much about that lately), a winter art exhibition, and an address (how I shall look forward to it!) on modern art, callisthenics—’

‘Oh, you ought to try those,’ said Georgie. ‘You stretch and stamp and feel ever so young afterwards. We’re all doing them.’

‘And does she take classes as she threat—promised to do?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘She will when we’ve mastered the elements,’ said Georgie. ‘We shall march round the kitchen-garden at Grebe—cinder paths you know, so good in wet weather—keeping time, and then skip and flex and jerk. And if it’s raining we shall do them in the kitchen. You can throw open those double doors, and have plenty of fresh air which is so important. There’s that enormous kitchen-table too, to hold on to, when we’re doing that swimming movement. It’s like a great raft.’

Elizabeth had not the nerve to ask if Major Benjy was to be of that company. It would be too bitter to know that he, who had so sternly set his face against Lucia’s domination, was in process of being sucked down in that infernal whirlpool of her energetic grabbings. Almost she wished that she had asked her to be one of her bridge-party to-morrow: but it was too late now. Her seven invitations—seven against Lucia—had gone forth, and not till she got home would she know whether her two bridge-tables were full.

‘And this winter exhibition,’ she asked. ‘What a good idea! We’re all so idle in the winter at dear old Tilling, and now there’s another thing to work for. Are you sending that delicious picture of the garden-room? How I enjoyed our lovely chatty mornings when you were painting it!’

By the ordinary rules of polite conversation, Georgie ought to have asked her what she was sending. He did nothing of the kind, but looked a little uncomfortable. Probably then, as Irene had told her, the exhibition was to consist of pictures sent by request of the committee, and at present they had not requested her. She felt that she must make sure about that, and determined to send in a picture without being asked. That would show for certain what was going on.

‘Weren’t those mornings pleasant?’ said the evasive Georgie. ‘I was quite sorry when my picture was finished.’

Georgie appeared unusually reticent: he did not volunteer any more information about the winter exhibition, nor about Lucia’s telephoning, nor had he mentioned that he and Major Benjy had lunched with her to-day. She would lead him in the direction of that topic…

‘How happy dear Lucia is in her pretty Grebe,’ she said. ‘I took my walk along the road there to-day. Her garden, so pleasant! A high tide this afternoon. The beautiful river flowing down to the sea, and the tide coming up to meet it. Did you notice it?’

Georgie easily saw through that: he would talk about tides with pleasure, but not lunch.

‘It looked lovely,’ he said, ‘but they tell me that in ten days’ time the spring tides are on, and they will be much higher. The water has been over the road in front of Lucia’s house sometimes.’

Elizabeth went back to Mallards more uneasy than ever.

Lucia was indeed busy arranging callisthenic classes and winter exhibitions and, clearly, some party at Grebe, but not a word had she said to her about any of these things, nor had she sent the recipe for lobster
à la Riseholme.
But there was nothing more to be done to-night except to take steps concerning the picture exhibition to which she had not been asked to contribute. The house was full of her sketches, and she selected quite the best of them and directed Withers to pack it up and send it, with her card, to the Committee of the Art Club, Grebe.