Authors: Guy Fraser-Sampson
‘No indeed,’ she concurred. ‘Though it may be unchristian to say so, Benjy, one has to admit that Lucia and the truth are complete strangers to one another.’
‘Not unchristian at all,’ her husband averred. ‘The damn woman’s a liar; no two ways about it.’
‘But why is it that nobody else sees that?’ Mapp wailed. ‘Why, when it’s as plain as a pikestaff?’
‘Not as bright as you, Liz-girl. Why, I’ve always said that you were as bright as a button. You’ve always seen through her stories, haven’t you?’
He took a pull at his drink and cast a hopeful glance towards the tantalus.
‘All you have to do, surely,’ he went on, ‘is to concentrate on one particularly blatant lie – maybe like knowing this Noël Coward feller – and make sure everyone knows it isn’t true. Shouldn’t be difficult either, not after that letter he wrote her.’
‘But how can I, Benjy?’ wailed his wife. ‘After that picture in the
Telegraph
everyone will take it for granted that she knows him – yes, and that vile Gielgud creature as well.’
‘No, no,’ the Major replied, shaking his head for greater emphasis. ‘Don’t see that. Don’t see that at all.’
‘What do you mean?’ Elizabeth asked somewhat plaintively.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure it even proves that Pillson knows him. Yes, all right they were clearly at that restaurant together, but suppose it was the first time they’d ever met? Isn’t it much more likely that the Bracely woman knows him and just introduced him to Pillson because they all happened to be dining at the same place at the same time?’
‘Do you think so?’ Elizabeth asked uncertainly.
‘Sure of it,’ the Major averred, making an expansive gesture with his by now empty glass to emphasise his certitude. ‘After all, we know that it was after the opera, cos the paper said so, and how many restaurants are open after the opera? Damn few. Anyway, all these theatrical johnnies probably go to the same place – mince around smoking Turkish cigarettes and all that sort of thing.’
‘But even if you’re right – and I’m sure you are, Benjy-boy – how can we catch her out?’
‘Simple, old girl,’ he responded. ‘Either she knows him or she doesn’t. If she does, then she can invite him down for the weekend. If she doesn’t, she can’t. And we know from that letter you saw that she doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t want to come. All you have to do is keep jabbing away and sooner or later she will run out of excuses. If the horse won’t run, then it won’t run, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Benjy!’ Elizabeth marvelled. ‘Why, that’s positively inspired! Of course that’s what we shall do.’
Greatly daring, the Major rose and crossed to the fount of his inspiration in a fine display of masculine superiority. It was good for the little woman to know that when she needed advice on a particularly tricky point, then she could turn to the infallible oracle that was her husband.
‘Course, the best thing,’ he opined airily while pouring himself another drink, ‘is that once you’ve caught her out in one lie, absolutely caught her out mind, with no possible doubt, then nobody will quite believe her about anything ever again.’
‘Yes,’ she said in a tone of pleasurable anticipation, beaming at him admiringly.
Sensing the waves of positive sentiment that were washing in his direction, he allowed himself a little smile and an extra splash from the decanter.
So it was that Lucia was summoned to the telephone that evening at Mallards by Grosvenor with the words, ‘Mrs Mapp-Flint, madam.’
‘Elizabeth, dear,’ Lucia said breezily. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Lucia, dear, only just seen the newspapers. I’ve been so busy. Thought I should call.’
Mapp paused.
‘Ah yes, the newspapers,’ Lucia said in a matter-of fact way. ‘The
Telegraph
, wasn’t it? I only got around to it quite late, you know, after the financial papers. Georgie with Olga, Noël and John, you mean? So wonderful they could have a nice time. Only a shame I couldn’t get away to join them, but you know how much I have on my plate. But surely we talked about it this morning,
non é vero
?’
‘Oh, but haven’t you seen the
Mirror
?’ Mapp enquired innocently.
‘The
Mirror
? Surely you don’t read that dreadful rag, do you?’
‘No, of course not,’ Mapp said smoothly, ‘but Withers does and she showed it to us. Not too upsetting for you, I trust?’
‘You’ll have to enlighten me, I’m afraid, dear.’ Now it was Lucia’s turn for innocence. ‘To what exactly are you alluding?’
‘Why the picture of Georgie and Olga Bracely, of course. Surprised you haven’t seen it. I would have thought someone would have shown it to you.’
Not for the first time, Elizabeth deeply regretted the loss of her vantage point at Mallards, from the garden room of which she used to able to observe the comings and goings of all her friends and neighbours. How vexing not to be able to know for certain who had visited Lucia today.
‘Is it a nice picture?’ Lucia asked absently, as if scanning the financial pages and trying to attend to her telephone conversation at the same time.
‘Rather depends on your definition of “nice”,’ Elizabeth replied with what was supposed to be a friendly giggle but sounded awfully like a Jack Russell launching itself in pursuit of a rat. ‘They are sharing an intimate moment, according to the newspaper. Kissing, in fact, not to put too fine a point on it.’
‘You must remember, Elizabeth,’ Lucia replied coolly, ‘that Georgie and Olga are very old friends, and it is customary, I believe, for old friends to kiss each other when they meet.’
There was a noise at the other end, which signified scepticism.
‘So, will Mr Georgie be away for long, I wonder? Like that time in Le Touquet? Oh, let me see, that was with Miss Bracely as well, wasn’t it? How nice for you, dear one, that he has someone to occupy his time while you are so busy coming amongst us and doing good works.’
Lucia resisted a strong impulse to say something nasty and put the phone down. It would never do to sink to poor Elizabeth’s level of petty jealousy.
‘Both coming here tomorrow, dear,’ she informed her former Lady Mayoress, ‘as I have just learned by telegram. How sweet of Olga to think of us while she is so busy in town, but how very much like her, don’t you think?’
There came an indeterminate noise which might have been indicating shared joy and rapture at Lucia’s news but almost certainly was not.
‘I thought, naturally, Elizabeth, as I said,’ Lucia ploughed on, rather like an elegant but powerful ocean liner breasting the waves and nonchalantly shoving aside the odd iceberg in the process, ‘that you were referring to the picture in the
Telegraph
of Olga and Georgie with Noël and John – so nice they were able to get together as I suggested.’
‘Yes, so nice of Olga to introduce her friends to Mr Georgie,’ Mapp purred, all sweetness once again.
‘Our friends too, Elizabeth dear,’ Lucia reminded her, ‘Georgie and I. Why Noël and I keep up a constant correspondence, though the poor man is so busy. He sometimes only has time to dash off a couple of lines as he arrives in New York, or Paris, or wherever it is.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful that you and Noël Coward are such close friends?’ Mapp enthused. ‘You see, there’s the teensiest favour I’d like to ask you.’
Too late, Lucia smelt danger.
‘The Bartletts popped in a little while ago,’ Mapp purred, ‘asking for me to help with some fête thing over at Tenterden in three weeks’ time. Don’t know why really, after all everyone knows that sort of thing is much more in your line, dear worship. Why your tableaux vivants are the talk of East Sussex.’
‘I trust,’ Lucia broke in, ‘that you haven’t volunteered me for performing anything without consulting me first.
Cattiva
Elizabeth – you know how full my diary is. Anyway, I’m afraid it would be quite out of the question at such short notice. The preparations are extensive, dear, though of course I was forgetting – you’ve never actually featured in my tableaux, have you?’
This was true, largely because no such involvement had ever been requested. There was a sound at the other end of the line which might – only might, mind – have been produced by the grinding of teeth.
‘No, that’s not it at all,’ came the rejoinder. ‘Actually the Padre said they were looking for something interesting. Not that your tableaux aren’t interesting of course, though we have seen you as Queen Elizabeth so many times that perhaps the impact is beginning to be lost on us a little, and we must all be grateful that the costume has survived all these years, though do I sense that it might have been let out a little? No, something
more
interesting, perhaps, more up to date?’
Lucia made a noise which might have started life as ‘Indeed, dear?’ but which somehow became rather strangled as it passed her tonsils.
‘And that’s when I had my little brainwave,’ Mapp said brightly. ‘I said to the Padre, “But why don’t you ask Lucia to invite her dear, dear friend Noël Coward down for the weekend and he can motor over to Tenterden with Cadman and open the fête?” And the Padre said, “What a bonny idea, Mistress Mapp,” and rang his friend the vicar at Tenterden, and
he
thought it was wonderful idea too. And then I positively clapped my little hands and thought how lovely it would all be.’
In Lucia’s mind, the gearwheels were spinning wildly but somehow she could not quite slip the clutch and engage them. What to say? What to do?
‘So, you see, dear,’ Mapp continued even more brightly than before, ‘I haven’t volunteered you for anything at all. Only Noël Coward.’
There was a pause before she delivered the
coup de grâce
, and now the brightness was the gleam of tempered steel as she slid the blade between Lucia’s ribs.
‘Your very good friend.’
‘O
lga, dear,’ Lucia exclaimed with every appearance of sincerity as the opera singer came into the drawing room in response to the dinner gong, ‘how delightful that you could join us.’
‘Jolly decent of you to have me,’ Olga replied awkwardly.
Georgie stepped forward supportively and pressed a glass into her hand.
‘Champagne,’ he commented, as if to himself. ‘How lovely.’
‘Oh, hang it all, Lucia,’ Olga broke out, direct as ever, ‘I can’t even begin to tell you how awfully cut up I am about those wretched photos in the papers.’
‘I am sure the fourth estate were only doing their jobs,’ Lucia replied calmly, ‘though I must confess I was surprised to hear Georgie being described both as your companion and as the Mayor of Tilling.’
‘Oh, it’s all perfectly simple, really,’ Georgie explained. ‘All they have to do is to get one of the waiters to say that they have seen you both dining there before, and then they can imply that you are really “together”, if you see what I mean. All too tarsome, of course, but there you are.’
‘And your newly acquired title, Georgie?’ Lucia enquired with heavy sarcasm. ‘Are you suggesting that this mistake too was promulgated by one of the serving staff?’
‘Yes, actually it was,’ Olga cut in. ‘I rang up Alfredo at Sheekey’s at lunchtime and demanded an explanation. It turns out someone used to work at the Ritz and heard Poppy introduce Georgie as the Mayor of Tilling years ago, so for half a crown he passed the tip on to the
Mirror
. Alfredo was most apologetic and asked me to convey to you that the man concerned was dismissed on the spot as soon as he confessed.’
‘Quite gratifying really, if you think about it,’ Georgie marvelled, studying himself intently in the mirror, ‘that I should be so little changed that the waiter should have recognised me after all this time. Just fancy!’
To his dismay, neither lady leapt to agree with him.
‘Dear Poppy,’ Lucia reflected with one of her silvery laughs, ‘how like her!’
Poppy, Duchess of Sheffield, had sadly passed away around the time of El Alamein, and all three of them had attended her funeral, braving the rigours of wartime rail travel since the Rolls had been laid up for the duration for lack of petrol. For the last decade and a half of her life she had imagined herself passionately in love with Georgie, chiefly – so she claimed – on account of his beard. Georgie for his part had found her persistent attentions most unwelcome, taking to locking his bedroom door when she came to stay, and even being driven on one occasion to return early from a trip to Le Touquet. One of her many eccentricities, along with barbophilia, black coffee and dressed crab, had been to affect that it was Georgie, her dashing hero, who was Mayor of Tilling rather than his consort, whom she treated with a studied disdain.
‘I think in the circumstances,’ Lucia conceded magnanimously, ‘it would be best all round simply to treat the incident as the sort of mischievous prank in which the tabloid press seem to delight, and therefore closed as far as we innocent participants are concerned.’
‘Well, there we are, then,’ Georgie said contentedly. ‘So everything’s all right after all.’
He looked away from the mirror with some reluctance, for he had been particularly admiring the cut of the lapels of his new evening dress. Rationing had meant that he had been unable to have any significant tailoring done during the war, and while it was all too tiresome that rationing had continued unaccountably into peacetime, he had finally by hook or by crook managed to gather entitlement to enough material for a new set of tails. Perhaps too late, as it turned out, for his tailor had told him that these new-fangled dinner jackets were starting to become the rage, with a black tie rather than white. However, he was sure that Lucia would never allow such an abomination at her dinner table. In Tilling, hitum would continue to mean hitum unless and until the doyenne of local society should decide otherwise.
‘Mention of mayors and duchesses reminds me,’ Lucia went on, ‘that there is something that I have been meaning to discuss with you both, but perhaps we should go in? Cook will be very upset if her soufflé spoils.’
This was to prove a wise precaution since the soufflé was adjudged quite excellent, as was the Riesling that accompanied it. So excellent, in fact, that little conversation ensued until the dish containing the last crumbs of soufflé, which had stubbornly refused to be dislodged, had been returned to the kitchen.