The Complete Mapp & Lucia (72 page)

She led the way to the piano, where on the music-rest was the morsel of Stravinski, which explained the second and hitherto unintelligible rustle.

“Sit by me, Georgie,” she said, “and turn over quick, when I nod. Something like this.”

Lucia got through the first page beautifully, but then everything seemed to go wrong. Georgie had expected it all to be odd and aimless, but surely Stravinski hadn’t meant quite what Lucia was playing. Then he suddenly saw that the key had been changed, but in a very inconspicuous manner, right in the middle of a bar, and Lucia had not observed this. She went on playing with amazing agility, nodded at the end of the second page, and then luckily the piece changed back again into its original clef. Would it be wise to tell her? He thought not: next time she tried it, or the time after, she would very likely notice the change of key.

A brilliant roulade consisting of chromatic scales in contrary directions, brought this firework to an end, and Lucia gave a little shiver.

“I must work at it,” she said, “before I can judge of it…”

Her fingers strayed about the piano, and she paused. Then with the wistful expression Georgie knew so well, she played the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. Georgie set his face also into the Beethoven-expression, and at the end gave the usual little sigh.

“Divine,” he said. “You never played it better. Thank you, Lucia.”

She rose.

“You must thank immortal Beethoven,” she said.

Georgie’s head buzzed with inductive reasoning, as he hurried about on his vicariously hospitable errands. Lucia had certainly determined to make a second home in London, for she had distinctly said ‘my music room’ when she referred to the house in Brompton Square. Also it was easy to see the significance of her deigning to touch Stravinski with even the tip of one finger. She was visualising herself in the modern world, she was going to be up-to-date: the music-room in Brompton Square was not only to echo with the first movement of the Moonlight… “It’s too thrilling,” said Georgie, as, warmed with this mental activity, he quite forgot to put on his fur tippet.

His first visit, of course, was to Daisy Quantock, but he meant to stay no longer than just to secure her and her husband for dinner on Sunday with Olga, and tell her the number of the house in Brompton Square. He found that she had dug a large trench round her mulberry tree, and was busily pruning the roots with the wood-axe by the light of Nature: in fact she had cut off all their ends, and there was a great pile of chunks of mulberry root to be transferred in the wheel-barrow, now empty of manure, to the wood-shed.

“Twenty-five, that’s easy to remember,” she said. “And are they going to sell it?”

“Nothing settled,” said Georgie. “My dear, you’re being rather drastic, aren’t you? Won’t it die?”

“Not a bit,” said Daisy. “It’ll bear twice as many mulberries as before. Last year there was one. You should always prune the roots of a fruit tree that doesn’t bear. And the pearls?”

“No news,” said Georgie, “except that they come in a portrait of the aunt by Sargent.”

“No! By Sargent?” asked Daisy.

“Yes. And Queen Anne furniture and Chinese Chippendale chairs,” said Georgie.

“And how many bedrooms?” asked Daisy, wiping her axe on the grass.

“Five spare, so I suppose that means seven,” said Georgie, “and one with a sitting-room and bathroom attached. And a beautiful music-room.”

“Georgie, she means to live there,” said Daisy, “whether she told you or not. You don’t count the bedrooms like that in a house you’re going to sell. It isn’t done.”

“Nothing settled, I tell you,” said Georgie. “So you’ll dine with Olga on Sunday, and now I must fly and get people to lunch with her.”

“No! A lunch-party too?” asked Daisy.

“Yes. She wants to see everybody.”

“And five spare rooms, did you say?” asked Daisy, beginning to fill in her trench.

Georgie hurried out of the front gate, and Daisy shovelled the earth back and hurried indoors to impart all this news to her husband. He had a little rheumatism in his shoulder, and she gave him Coué treatment before she counterordered the chicken which she had bespoken for his dinner on Sunday.

Georgie thought it wise to go first to Olga’s house, to make sure that she had told her caretaker that she was coming down for the week-end. That was the kind of thing that prima-donnas sometimes forgot. There was a man sitting on the roof of Old Place with a coil of wire, and another sitting on the chimney. Though listening-in had not yet arrived at Riseholme, Georgie at once conjectured that Olga was installing it, and what would Lucia say? It was utterly un-Elizabethan to begin with, and though she countenanced the telephone, she had expressed herself very strongly on the subject of listening-in. She had had an unfortunate experience of it herself, for on a visit to London not long ago, her hostess had switched it on, and the company was regaled with a vivid lecture on pyorrhea by a hospital nurse… Georgie, however, would see Olga before Lucia came to dinner on Sunday and would explain her abhorrence of the instrument.

Then there was the delightful task of asking everybody to lunch. It was the hour now when Riseholme generally was popping in and out of shops, and finding out the news. It was already known that Georgie had dined with Lucia last night and that Pepino had gone to his aunt’s funeral, and everyone was agog to ascertain if anything definite had yet been ascertained about the immense fortune which had certainly come to the Lucases… Mrs. Antrobus spied Georgie going into Olga’s house (for the keenness of her eyesight made up for her deafness), and there she was with her ear-trumpet adjusted, looking at the view just outside Old Place when Georgie came out. Already the popular estimate had grown like a gourd.

“A quarter of a million, I’m told, Mr. Georgie,” said she, “and a house in Grosvenor Square, eh?”

Before Georgie could reply, Mrs. Antrobus’s two daughters, Piggy and Goosey came bounding up hand in hand. Piggy and Goosey never walked like other people: they skipped and gambolled to show how girlish an age is thirty-four and thirty-five.

“Oh stop, Mr. Georgie,” said Piggy. “Let us all hear. And are the pearls worth a Queen’s ransom?”

“Silly thing,” said Goosie. “I don’t believe in the pearls.”

“Well, I don’t believe in Grosvenor Square,” said Goosie. “So silly yourself!”

When this ebullition of high spirits had subsided, and Piggy had slapped Goosie on the back of her hands, they both said “Hush!” simultaneously.

“Well, I can’t say about the pearls,” said Georgie.

“Eh, what can’t you say?” said Mrs. Antrobus.

“About the pearls,” said Georgie, addressing himself to the end of Mrs. Antrobus’s trumpet. It was like the trunk of a very short elephant, and she waved it about as if asking for a bun.

“About the pearls, mamma,” screamed Goosie and Piggy together. “Don’t interrupt Mr. Georgie.”

“And the house isn’t in Grosvenor Square, but in Brompton Square,” said Georgie.

“But that’s quite in the slums,” said Mrs. Antrobus. “I am disappointed.”

“Not at all, a charming neighbourhood,” said Georgie. This was not at all what he had been looking forward to: he had expected cries of envious surprise at his news. “As for the fortune, about three thousand a year.”

“Is that all?” said Piggy with an air of deep disgust.

“A mere pittance to millionaires like Piggy,” said Goosie, and they slapped each other again.

“Any more news?” asked Mrs. Antrobus.

“Yes,” said Georgie, “Olga Bracely is coming down to-morrow—”

“No!” said all the ladies together.

“And her husband?” asked Piggy.

“No,” said Georgie without emphasis. “At least she didn’t say so. But she wants all her friends to come to lunch on Sunday. So you’ll all come, will you? She told me to ask everybody.”

“Yes,” said Piggy. “Oh, how lovely! I adore Olga. Will she let me sit next her?”

“Eh?” said Mrs. Antrobus.

“Lunch on Sunday, mamma, with Olga Bracely,” screamed Goosie.

“But she’s not here,” said Mrs. Antrobus.

“No, but she’s coming, mamma,” shouted Piggy. “Come along, Goosie. There’s Mrs. Boucher. We’ll tell her about poor Mrs. Lucas.”

Mrs. Boucher’s bath-chair was stationed opposite the butcher’s, where her husband was ordering the joint for Sunday. Piggy and Goosie had poured the tale of Lucia’s comparative poverty into her ear, before Georgie got to her. Here, however, it had a different reception, and Georgie found himself the hero of the hour.

“An immense fortune. I call it an immense fortune,” said Mrs. Boucher, emphatically, as Georgie approached. “Good morning, Mr. Georgie, I’ve heard your news, and I hope Mrs. Lucas will use it well. Brompton Square, too! I had an aunt who lived there once, my mother’s sister, you understand, not my father’s, and she used to say that she would sooner live in Brompton Square than in Buckingham Palace. What will they do with it, do you suppose? It must be worth its weight in gold. What a strange coincidence that Mr. Lucas’s aunt and mine should both have lived there! Any more news?”

“Yes,” said Georgie. “Olga is coming down to-morrow—”

“Well, that’s a bit of news!” said Mrs. Boucher, as her husband came out of the butcher’s shop. “Jacob, Olga’s coming down to-morrow, so Mr. Georgie says. That’ll make you happy! You’re madly in love with Olga, Jacob, so don’t deny it. You’re an old flirt, Jacob, that’s what you are. I shan’t get much of your attention till Olga goes away again. I should be ashamed at your age, I should. And young enough to be your daughter or mine either. And three thousand a year, Mr. Georgie says. I call it an immense fortune. That’s Mrs. Lucas, you know. I thought perhaps two. I’m astounded. Why, when old Mrs. Toppington—not the wife of the young Mr. Toppington who married the niece of the man who invented laughing gas—but of his father, or perhaps his uncle, I can’t be quite sure which, but when old Mr. Toppington died, he left his son or nephew, whichever it was, a sum that brought him in just about that, and he was considered a very rich man. He had the house just beyond the church at Scroby Windham where my father was rector, and he built the new wing with the billiard-room—”

Georgie knew he would never get through his morning’s work if he listened to everything that Mrs. Boucher had to say about young Mr. Toppington, and broke in.

“And she wants you and the colonel to lunch with her on Sunday,” he said. “She told me to ask all her old friends.”

“Well, I do call that kind,” said Mrs. Boucher, “and of course we’ll go… Jacob, the joint. We shan’t want the joint. I was going to give you a veal cutlet in the evening, so what’s the good of a joint? Just a bit of steak for the servants, a nice piece. Well, that will be a treat, to lunch with our dear Olga! Quite a party, I daresay.”

Mrs. Quantock’s chicken, already countermanded, came in nicely for Georgie’s dinner for Olga on Saturday, and by the time all his errands were done the morning was gone, without any practise at his piano, or work in his garden, or a single stitch in his new piece of embroidery. Fresh amazements awaited him when he made his fatigued return to his house. For Foljambe told him that Lucia, had sent her maid to borrow his manual on Auction Bridge. He was too tired to puzzle over that now, but it was strange that Lucia, who despised any form of cards as only fit for those who had not the intelligence to talk or to listen, should have done that. Cards came next to crossword puzzles in Lucia’s index of inanities. What did it mean?

Neither Lucia nor Pepino were seen in public at all till Sunday morning, though Daisy Quantock had caught sight of Pepino on his arrival on Friday afternoon, walking bowed with grief and with a faltering gait through the little paved garden in front of The Hurst, to his door. Lucia opened it for him, and they both shook their heads sadly and passed inside. But it was believed that they never came out the whole of Saturday, and their first appearance was at church on Sunday, though indeed, Lucia could hardly be said to have appeared, so impenetrable was her black veil. But that, so to speak, was the end of all mourning (besides, everybody knew that she was dining with Olga that night), and at the end of the service, she put up her veil, and held a sort of little reception standing in the porch, and shaking hands with all her friends as they went out. It was generally felt that this signified her re-entry into Riseholme life.

Hardly less conspicuous a figure was Georgie. Though Robert had been so sarcastic about his Oxford trousers, he had made up his mind to get it over, and after church he walked twice round the green quite slowly and talked to everybody, standing a little away so that they should get a complete view. The odious Piggy, it is true, burst into a squeal of laughter and cried, “Oh, Mr. Georgie, I see you’ve gone into long frocks,” and her mother put up her ear-trumpet as she approached as if to give a greater keenness to her general perceptions. But apart from the jarring incident of Piggy, Georgie was pleased with his trousers’ reception. They were beautifully cut too, and fell in charming lines, and the sensation they created was quite a respectful one. But it had been an anxious morning, and he was pleased when it was over.

And such a talk he had had with Olga last night, when she dined alone with him, and sat so long with her elbows on the table that Foljambe looked in three times in order to clear away. Her own adventures, she said, didn’t matter; she could tell Georgie about the American tour and the Australian tour, and the coming season in London any time at leisure. What she had to know about with the utmost detail was exactly everything that had happened at Riseholme since she had left it a year ago.

“Good heavens!” she said. “To think that I once thought that it was a quiet back-watery place where I could rest and do nothing but study. But it’s a whirl! There’s always something wildly exciting going on. Oh, what fools people are not to take an interest in what they call little things. Now go on about Lucia. It’s his aunt, isn’t it, and mad?”