The Complete Mapp & Lucia (46 page)

It was the Major’s turn to entertain his friend, and by half-past nine, on a certain squally October evening, he and Puffin were seated by the fire in the diary-room, while the rain volleyed at the windows and occasional puffs of stinging smoke were driven down the chimney by the gale that squealed and buffeted round the house. Puffin, by way of keeping up the comedy of Roman roads, had brought a map of the district across from his house, but the more essential part of his equipment for this studious evening was a bottle of whisky. Originally the host had provided whisky for himself and his guest at these pleasant chats, but there were undeniable objections to this plan, because the guest always proved unusually thirsty, which tempted his host to keep pace with him, while if they both drank at their own expense, the causes of economy and abstemiousness had a better chance. Also, while the Major took his drinks short and strong in a small tumbler, Puffin enriched his with lemons and sugar in a large one, so that nobody could really tell if equality as well as fraternity was realized. But if each brought his own bottle…

It had been a trying day, and the Major was very lame. A drenching storm had come up during their golf, while they were far from the club-house, and Puffin, being three up, had very naturally refused to accede to his opponent’s suggestion to call the match off. He was perfectly willing to be paid his half-crown and go home, but Major Flint, remembering that Puffin’s game usually went to pieces if it rained, had rejected this proposal with the scorn that it deserved. There had been other disagreeable incidents as well. His driver, slippery from rain, had flown out of the Major’s hands on the twelfth tee, and had “shot like a streamer of the northern morn”, and landed in a pool of brackish water left by an unusually high tide. The ball had gone into another pool nearer the tee. The ground was greasy with moisture, and three holes farther on Puffin had fallen flat on his face instead of lashing his fifth shot home on to the green, as he had intended. They had given each other stymies, and each had holed his opponent’s ball by mistake; they had wrangled over the correct procedure if you lay in a rabbit-scrape or on the tram lines: the Major had lost a new ball; there was a mushroom on one of the greens between Puffin’s ball and the hole… All these untoward incidents had come crowding in together, and from the Major’s point of view, the worst of them all had been the collective incident that Puffin, so far from being put off by the rain, had, in spite of mushroom and falling down, played with a steadiness of which he was usually quite incapable. Consequently Major Flint was lame and his wound troubled him, while Puffin, in spite of his obvious reasons for complacency, was growing irritated with his companion’s ill-temper, and was half-blinded by wood-smoke.

He wiped his streaming eyes.

“You should get your chimney swept,” he observed.

Major Flint had put his handkerchief over his face to keep the wood-smoke out of his eyes. He blew it off with a loud, indignant puff.

“Oh! Ah! Indeed!” he said.

Puffin was rather taken aback by the violence of these interjections; they dripped with angry sarcasm.

“Oh, well! No offence,” he said.

“A man,” said the Major impersonally, “makes an offensive remark, and says ‘No offence’. If your own fireside suits you better than mine, Captain Puffin, all I can say is that you’re at liberty to enjoy it!”

This was all rather irregular: they had indulged in a good stiff breeze this afternoon, and it was too early to ruffle the calm again. Puffin plucked and proffered an olive-branch.

“There’s your handkerchief,” he said, picking it up. “Now let’s have one of our comfortable talks. Hot glass of grog and a chat over the fire: that’s the best thing after such a wetting as we got this afternoon. I’ll take a slice of lemon, if you’ll be so good as to give it me, and a lump of sugar.”

The Major got up and limped to his cupboard. It struck him precisely at that moment that Puffin scored considerably over lemons and sugar, because he was supplied with them gratis every other night; whereas he himself, when Puffin’s guest, took nothing off his host but hot water. He determined to ask for some biscuits, anyhow, to-morrow…

“I hardly know whether there’s a lemon left,” he grumbled. “I must lay in a store of lemons. As for sugar—”

Puffin chose to disregard this suggestion.

“Amusing incident the other day,” he said brightly, “when Miss Mapp’s cupboard door flew open. The old lady didn’t like it. Don’t suppose the poor of the parish will see much of that corned beef.”

The Major became dignified.

“Pardon me,” he said. “When an esteemed friend like Miss Elizabeth tells me that certain provisions are destined for the poor of the parish, I take it that her statement is correct. I expect others of my friends, while they are in my presence, to do the same. I have the honour to give you a lemon, Captain Puffin, and a slice of sugar. I should say a lump of sugar. Pray make yourself comfortable.”

This dignified and lofty mood was often one of the aftereffects of an unsuccessful game of golf. It generally yielded quite quickly to a little stimulant. Puffin filled his glass from the bottle and the kettle, while his friend put his handkerchief again over his face.

“Well, I shall just have my grog before I turn in,” he observed, according to custom. “Aren’t you going to join me, Major?”

“Presently, sir,” said the Major.

Puffin knocked out the consumed cinders in his pipe against the edge of the fender. Major Flint apparently was waiting for this, for he withdrew his handkerchief and closely watched the process. A minute piece of ash fell from Puffin’s pipe on to the hearthrug, and he jumped to his feet and removed it very carefully with the shovel.

“I have your permission, I hope?” he said witheringly.

“Certainly, certainly,” said Puffin. “Now get your glass, Major. You’ll feel better in a minute or two.”

Major Flint would have liked to have kept up this magnificent attitude, but the smell of Puffin’s steaming glass beat dignity down, and after glaring at him, he limped back to the cupboard for his whisky bottle. He gave a lamentable cry when he beheld it.

“But I got that bottle in only the day before yesterday,” he shouted, “and there’s hardly a drink left in it.”

“Well, you did yourself pretty well last night,” said Puffin. “Those small glasses of yours, if frequently filled up, empty a bottle quicker than you seem to realize.”

Motives of policy prevented the Major from receiving this with the resentment that was proper to it, and his face cleared. He would get quits over these incessant lemons and lumps of sugar.

“Well, you’ll have to let me borrow from you to-night,” he said genially, as he poured the rest of the contents of his bottle into the glass. “Ah, that’s more the ticket! A glass of whisky a day keeps the doctor away.”

The prospect of sponging on Puffin was most exhilarating, and he put his large slippered feet on to the fender.

“Yes, indeed, that was a highly amusing incident about Miss Mapp’s cupboard,” he said. “And wasn’t Mrs. Plaistow down on her like a knife about it? Our fair friends, you know, have a pretty sharp eye for each other’s little failings. They’ve no sooner finished one squabble than they begin another, the pert little fairies. They can’t sit and enjoy themselves like two old cronies I could tell you of, and feel at peace with all the world.”

He finished his glass at a gulp, and seemed much surprised to find it empty.

“I’ll be borrowing a drop from you, old friend,” he said.

“Help yourself, Major,” said Puffin, with a keen eye as to how much he took.

“Very obliging of you. I feel as if I caught a bit of a chill this afternoon. My wound.”

“Be careful not to inflame it,” said Puffin.

“Thank ye for the warning. It’s this beastly climate that touches it up. A winter in England adds years on to a man’s life unless he takes care of himself. Take care of yourself, old boy. Have some more sugar.”

Before long the Major’s hand was moving slowly and instinctively towards Puffin’s whisky bottle again.

“I reckon that big glass of yours, Puffin,” he said, “holds between three and a half times to four times what my little tumbler holds. Between three and a half and four I should reckon. I may be wrong.”

“Reckoning the water in, I daresay you’re not far out, Major,” said he. “And according to my estimate you mix your drink somewhere about three and a half times to four stronger than I mix mine.”

“Oh, come, come!” said the Major.

“Three and a half to four times,
I
should say,” repeated Puffin. “You won’t find I’m far out.”

He replenished his big tumbler, and instead of putting the bottle back on the table, absently deposited it on the floor on the far side of his chair. This second tumbler usually marked the most convivial period of the evening, for the first would have healed whatever unhappy discords had marred the harmony of the day, and, those being disposed of, they very contentedly talked through their hats about past prowesses, and took a rosy view of the youth and energy which still beat in their vigorous pulses. They would begin, perhaps, by extolling each other: Puffin, when informed that his friend would be fifty-four next birthday, flatly refused (without offence) to believe it, and, indeed, he was quite right in so doing, because the Major was in reality fifty-six. In turn, Major Flint would say that his friend had the figure of a boy of twenty, which caused Puffin presently to feel a little cramped and to wander negligently in front of the big looking-glass between the windows, and find this compliment much easier to swallow than the Major’s age. For the next half-hour they would chiefly talk about themselves in a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction. Major Flint, looking at the various implements and trophies that adorned the room, would suggest putting a sporting challenge in
The Times.

“‘Pon my word, Puffin,” he would say, “I’ve half a mind to do it. Retired Major of His Majesty’s Forces—the King, God bless him!” (and he took a substantial sip); “‘Retired Major, aged fifty-four, challenges any gentleman of fifty years or over.’”

“Forty,” said Puffin sycophantically, as he thought over what he would say about himself when the old man had finished.

“Well, we’ll halve it, we’ll say forty-five, to please you, Puffin—let’s see, where had I got to?—’Retired Major challenges any gentleman of forty-five years or over to—to a shooting match in the morning, followed by half a dozen rounds with four-ounce gloves, a game of golf, eighteen holes, in the afternoon, and a billiards match of two hundred up after tea.’ Ha! ha! I shouldn’t feel much anxiety as to the result.”

“My confounded leg!” said Puffin. “But I know a retired captain from His Majesty’s merchant service—the King, God bless him!—aged fifty—”

“Ho! ho! Fifty, indeed!” said the Major, thinking to himself that a dried-up little man like Puffin might be as old as an Egyptian mummy. Who can tell the age of a kipper?…

“Not a day less, Major. ‘Retired Captain, aged fifty, who’ll take on all comers of forty-two and over, at a steeplechase, round of golf, billiards match, hopping match, gymnastic competition, swinging Indian clubs—’ No objection, gentlemen? Then carried
mem. con.”

This gaseous mood, athletic, amatory or otherwise (the amatory ones were the worst), usually faded slowly, like the light from the setting sun or an exhausted coal in the grate, about the end of Puffin’s second tumbler, and the gentlemen after that were usually somnolent, but occasionally laid the foundation for some disagreement next day, which they were too sleepy to go into now. Major Flint by this time would have had some five small glasses of whisky (equivalent, as he bitterly observed, to one in prewar days), and as he measured his next with extreme care and a slightly jerky movement, would announce it as being his night-cap, though you would have thought he had plenty of night-caps on already. Puffin correspondingly took a thimbleful more (the thimble apparently belonging to some housewife of Anak), and after another half-hour of sudden single snores and startings awake again, of pipes frequently lit and immediately going out, the guest, still perfectly capable of coherent speech and voluntary motion in the required direction, would stumble across the dark cobbles to his house, and doors would be very carefully closed for fear of attracting the attention of the lady who at this period of the evening was usually known as “Old Mappy”. The two were perfectly well aware of the sympathetic interest that Old Mappy took in all that concerned them, and that she had an eye on their evening séances was evidenced by the frequency with which the corner of her blind in the window of the garden-room was raised between, say, half-past nine and eleven at night. They had often watched with giggles the pencil of light that escaped, obscured at the lower end by the outline of Old Mappy’s head, and occasionally drank to the “Guardian Angel”. Guardian Angel, in answer to direct inquiries, had been told by Major Benjy during the last month that he worked at his diaries on three nights in the week and went to bed early on the others, to the vast improvement of his mental grasp.

“And on Sunday night, dear Major Benjy?” asked Old Mappy in the character of Guardian Angel.

“I don’t think you knew my beloved, my revered mother, Miss Elizabeth,” said Major Benjy. “I spend Sunday evening as—Well, well.”

The very next Sunday evening Guardian Angel had heard the sound of singing. She could not catch the words, and only fragments of the tune, which reminded her of “The roseate morn hath passed away”. Brimming with emotion, she sang it softly to herself as she undressed, and blamed herself very much for ever having thought that dear Major Benjy—She peeped out of her window when she had extinguished her light, but fortunately the singing had ceased.

To-night, however, the epoch of Puffin’s second big tumbler was not accompanied by harmonious developments. Major Benjy was determined to make the most of this unique opportunity of drinking his friend’s whisky, and whether Puffin put the bottle on the farther side of him, or under his chair, or under the table, he came padding round in his slippers and standing near the ambush while he tried to interest his friend in tales of love or tiger-shooting so as to distract his attention. When he mistakenly thought he had done so, he hastily refilled his glass, taking unusually stiff doses for fear of not getting another opportunity, and altogether omitting to ask Puffin’s leave for these maraudings. When this had happened four or five times, Puffin, acting on the instinct of the polar bear who eats her babies for fear that anybody else should get them, surreptitiously poured the rest of his bottle into his glass, and filled it up to the top with hot water, making a mixture of extraordinary power.