The Complete Mapp & Lucia (77 page)

“Georgie, my hand is positively being dragged about,” she said excitedly. “If anything, I try to resist.”

“Mine too; so do I,” said Georgie. “It’s too wonderful. Do you suppose it’s Arabic still?”

The pencil gave a great dash, and stopped.

“It isn’t Arabic,” said Daisy as she examined the message, “at least, there’s heaps of English too.”

“No!” said Georgie, putting on his spectacles in his excitement, and not caring whether Daisy knew he wore them or not. “I can see it looks like English, but what a difficult handwriting! Look, that’s ‘Abfou’, isn’t it? And that is ‘Abfou’ again there.”

They bent their heads over the script.

“There’s an ‘L,’” cried Daisy, “and there it is again. And then there’s ‘L from L.’ And then there’s ‘Dead’ repeated twice. It can’t mean that Abfou is dead, because this is positive proof that he’s alive. And then I can see ‘Mouse’?”

“Where?” said Georgie eagerly. “And what would ‘dead mouse’ mean?”

“There!” said Daisy pointing. “No: it isn’t ‘dead mouse.’ It’s ‘dead’ and then a lot of Arabic, and then ‘mouse.’”

“I don’t believe it is ‘Mouse,’” said Georgie, “though of course, you know Abfou’s handwriting much better than I do. It looks to me far more like ‘Museum.’

“Perhaps he wants me to send all the Arabic he’s written up to the British Museum,” said Daisy with a flash of genius, “so that they can read it and say what it means.”

“But then there’s ‘Museum’ or ‘Mouse’ again there,” said Georgie, “and surely that word in front of it—It is! It’s Riseholme! Riseholme Mouse or Riseholme Museum! I don’t know what either would mean.”

“You may depend upon it that it means something,” said Daisy, “and there’s another capital ‘L.’ Does it mean Lucia, do you think? But ‘dead’…”

“No: dead’s got nothing to do with the ‘L,’” said Georgie. “Museum comes in between, and quantities of Arabic.”

“I think I’ll just record the exact time; it would be more scientific,” said Daisy. “A quarter to eleven. No, that clock’s three minutes fast by the church time.”

“No, the church time is slow,” said Georgie.

Suddenly he jumped up.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Look! ‘L from L.’ That means a letter from Lucia. And it’s quite true. I heard this morning, and it’s in my pocket now.”

“No!” said Daisy, “that’s just a sign Abfou is giving us, that he really is with us, and knows what is going on. Very evidential.”

The absorption of them both in this script may be faintly appreciated by the fact that neither Daisy evinced the slightest curiosity as to what Lucia said, nor Georgie the least desire to communicate it.

“And then there’s ‘dead’,” said Georgie, looking out of the window. “I wonder what that means.”

“I’m sure I hope it’s not Lucia,” said Daisy with stoical calmness, “but I can’t think of anybody else.”

Georgie’s eyes wandered over the Green; Mrs. Boucher was speeding round in her bath-chair, pushed by her husband, and there was the Vicar walking very fast, and Mrs. Antrobus and Piggy and Goosey… nobody else seemed to be dead. Then his eye came back to the foreground of Daisy’s front garden.

“What has happened to your mulberry-tree?” he said parenthetically. “Its leaves are all drooping. You ought never to have pruned its roots without knowing how to do it.”

Daisy jumped up.

“Georgie, you’ve got it!” she said. “It’s the mulberry-tree that’s dead. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Georgie was suitably impressed.

“That’s very curious: very curious indeed,” he said. “Letter from Lucia, and the dead mulberry tree. I do believe there’s something in it. But let’s go on studying the script. Now I look at it again I feel certain it is Riseholme Museum, not Riseholme Mouse. The only difficulty is that there isn’t a Museum in Riseholme.”

“There are plenty of mice,” observed Daisy, who had had some trouble with these little creatures. “Abfou may be wanting to give me advice about some kind of ancient Egyptian trap… But if you aren’t very busy this morning, Georgie, we might have another sitting and see if we get anything more definite. Let us attain collectedness as the directions advise.”

“What’s collectedness?” asked Georgie.

Daisy gave him the directions. Collectedness seemed to be a sort of mixture of intense concentration and complete vacuity of mind.

“You seem to have to concentrate your mind upon nothing at all,” said he after reading it.

“That’s just it,” said Daisy. “You put all thoughts out of your head, and then focus your mind. We have to be only the instrument through which Abfou functions.”

They sat down again after a little deep breathing and relaxation, and almost immediately the planchette began to move across the paper with a firm and steady progression. It stopped sometimes for a few minutes, which was proof of the authenticity of the controlling force, for in spite of all efforts at collectedness, both Daisy’s and Georgie’s minds were full of things which they longed for Abfou to communicate, and if either of them was consciously directing those movements, there could have been no pause at all. When finally it gave that great dash across the paper again, indicating that the communication was finished, they found the most remarkable results.

Abfou had written two pages of foolscap in a tall upright hand, which was quite unlike either Daisy’s or Georgie’s ordinary script, and this was another proof (if proof were wanted) of authenticity. It was comparatively easy to read, and, except for a long passage at the end in Arabic, was written almost entirely in English.

“Look, there’s Lucia written out in full four times,” said Daisy eagerly. “And ‘Pepper.’ What’s Pepper?”

Georgie gasped.

“Why Pepino, of course,” he said. “I do call that odd. And see how it goes on—’Muck company ‘, no ‘Much company, much grand company, higher and higher.’”

“Poor Lucia!” said Daisy. “How sarcastic! That’s what Abfou thinks about it all. By the way, you haven’t told me what she says yet; never mind, this is far more interesting… Then there’s a little Arabic, at least I think it’s Arabic, for I can’t make anything out of it, and then—why, I believe those next words are ‘From Olga.’ Have you heard from Olga?”

“No,” said Georgie, “but there’s something about her in Lucia’s letter. Perhaps that’s it.”

“Very likely. And then I can make out Riseholme, and it isn’t ‘mouse,’ it’s quite clearly ‘Museum,’ and then—I can’t read that, but it looks English, and then ‘opera,’ that’s Olga again, and ‘dead,’ which is the mulberry tree. And then ‘It is better to work than to be idle. Think not—’ something—”

“Bark,” said Georgie. “No, ‘hard.’”

“Yes. ‘Think not hard thoughts of any, but turn thy mind to improving work.’—Georgie, isn’t that wonderful?—and then it goes off into Arabic, what a pity! It might have been more about the museum. I shall certainly send all the first Arabic scripts to the British Museum.”

Georgie considered this.

“Somehow I don’t believe that is what Abfou means,” said he. “He says Riseholme Museum, not British Museum. You can’t possibly get ‘British’ out of that word.”

Georgie left Daisy still attempting to detect more English among Arabic passages and engaged himself to come in again after tea for fresh investigation. Within a minute of his departure Daisy’s telephone rang.

“How tiresome these interruptions are,” said Daisy to herself, as she hurried to the instrument. “Yes, yes. Who is it?”

Georgie’s voice had the composure of terrific excitement.

“It’s me,” he said. “The second post has just come in, and a letter from Olga. ‘From Olga,’ you remember.”

“No!” said Daisy. “Do tell me if she says anything about—”

But Georgie had already rung off. He wanted to read his letter from Olga, and Daisy sat down again quite awestruck at this further revelation. The future clearly was known to Abfou as well as the past, for Georgie knew nothing about Olga’s letter when the words ‘From Olga’ occurred in the script. And if in it she said anything about ‘opera’ (which really was on the cards) it would be more wonderful still.

The morning was nearly over, so Daisy observed to her prodigious surprise, for it had really gone like a flash (a flash of the highest illuminative power), and she hurried out with a trowel and a rake to get half an hour in the garden before lunch. It was rather disconcerting to find that though she spent the entire day in the garden, often not sitting down to her planchette till dusk rendered it impossible to see the mazes of cotton threads she had stretched over newly-sown beds, to keep off sparrows (she had on one occasion shattered with a couple of hasty steps the whole of those defensive fortifications) she seemed, in spite of blistered hands and aching back, to be falling more and more into arrears over her horticulture. Whereas that ruffian Simkinson, whom she had dismissed for laziness when she found him smoking a pipe in the potting-shed and doing a cross-word puzzle when he ought to have been working, really kept her garden in very good order by slouching about it for three half-days in the week. To be sure, she had pruned the roots of the mulberry tree, which had taken a whole day (and so incidentally had killed the mulberry tree) and though the death of that antique vegetable had given Abfou a fine opportunity for proving himself, evidence now was getting so abundant that Daisy almost wished it hadn’t happened. Then, too, she was beginning to have secret qualms that she had torn up as weeds a quantity of seedlings which the indolent Simkinson had just pricked out, for though the beds were now certainly weedless, there was no sign of any other growth there. And either Daisy’s little wooden labels had got mixed, or she had sown Brussels sprouts in the circular bed just outside the dining-room window instead of Phlox Drummondi. She thought she had attached the appropriate label to the seed she had sown, but it was very dark at the time, and in the morning the label certainly said ‘Brussels sprouts.’ In which case there would be a bed of Phlox at the far end of the little strip of kitchen garden. The seeds in both places were sprouting now, so she would know the worst or the best before long.

Then, again, there was the rockery she had told Simkinson to build, which he had neglected for cross-word puzzles, and though Daisy had been working six or eight hours a day in her garden ever since, she had not found time to touch a stone of it, and the fragments lying like a moraine on the path by the potting-shed still rendered any approach to the latter a mountaineering feat. They consisted of fragments of mediæval masonry, from the site of the ancient abbey, finials and crockets and pieces of mullioned windows which had been turned up when a new siding of the railway had been made, and everyone almost had got some with the exception of Mrs. Boucher, who called them rubbish. Then there were some fossils, ammonites and spar and curious flints with holes in them and bits of talc, for Lucia one year had commandeered them all into the study of geology and they had got hammers and whacked away at the face of an old quarry, detaching these petrified relics and hitting themselves over the fingers in the process. It was that year that the Roman camp outside the village had been put under the plough and Riseholme had followed it like a bevy of rooks, and Georgie had got several trays full of fragments of iridescent glass, and Colonel Boucher had collected bits of Samian ware, and Mrs. Antrobus had found a bronze fibula or safety-pin. Daisy had got some chunks of Roman brickwork, and a section of Roman drainpipe, which now figured among the materials for her rockery; and she had bought, for about their weight in gold, quite a dozen bronze coins. These, of course, would not be placed in the rockery, but she had put them somewhere very carefully, and had subsequently forgotten where that was. Now as these archæological associations came into her mind from the contemplation of the materials for the rockery, she suddenly thought she remembered that she had put them at the back of the drawer in her card-table.

The sight of these antique fragments disgusted Daisy; they littered the path, and she could not imagine them built up into a rockery that should have the smallest claim to be an attractive object. How could the juxtaposition of a stone mullion, a drainpipe and an ammonite present a pleasant appearance? Besides, who was to juxtapose them? She could not keep pace with the other needs of the garden, let alone a rockery, and where, after all, was the rockery to stand? The asparagus-bed seemed the only place, and she preferred asparagus.

Robert was bawling out from the dining-room window that lunch was ready, and as she retraced her steps to the house, she thought that perhaps it would be better to eat humble pie and get Simkinson to return. It was clear to Daisy that if she was to do her duty as medium between ancient Egypt and the world of to-day, the garden would deteriorate even more rapidly than it was doing already, and no doubt Robert would consent to eat the humble pie for her, and tell Simkinson that they couldn’t get on without him, and that when she had said he was lazy, she had meant industrious, or whatever else was necessary.

Robert was in a very good temper that day because Roumanian oils which were the main source of his fortunes had announced a higher dividend than usual, and he promised to seek out Simkinson and explain what lazy meant, and if he didn’t understand to soothe his injured feelings with a small tip.

“And tell him he needn’t make a rockery at all,” said Daisy. “He always hated the idea of a rockery. He can dig a pit and bury the fossils and the architectural fragments and everything. That will be the easiest way of disposing of them.”

“And what is he to do with the earth he takes out of the pit, my dear?” asked Robert.

“Put it back, I suppose,” said Daisy rather sharply. Robert was so pleased at having ‘caught’ her, that he did not even explain that she had been caught…

After lunch Daisy found the coins; it was odd that, having forgotten where she had put them for so long, she should suddenly remember, and she was inclined to attribute this inspiration to Abfou. The difficulty was to know what, having found them, to do with them next. Some of them obviously bore signs of once having had profiles of Roman emperors stamped on them, and she was sure she had heard that some Roman coins were of great value, and probably these were the ones. Perhaps when she sent the Arabic script to the British Museum she might send these too for identification… . And then she dropped them all on the floor as the great idea struck her.