The Adorable Roadster

The Adorable Roadster

On a pleasant afternoon in early spring soon after the end of the War, a small yellow 1946 MG TC Roadster crept slowly down the long drive of a farm a few miles outside Tilling.  The Roadster was a secret.  The driver was Mr George Pillson, and in the passenger seat was Cadman, the chauffeur, who was teaching Mr Pillson to drive.  Georgie wanted to surprise his wife Lucia with his consummate driving skill when he appeared to her in the convertible he had purchased. 

Georgie had been chafing at his loss of freedom ever since he patriotically sacrificed his chauffeur-driven Armaud to the War Effort.  While the War was on, he could feel good about giving up his vehicle and occasionally remind his friends of his generous relinquishment.  But now the War was over, and being stuck in Tilling or limited to the parts of Sussex easily reached by bicycle grated, for Georgie wanted more mobility, more liberty, more independence.  Georgie found himself with a longing to literally explore the “broad horizons” that his wife so often spoke of. 

Whilst on the last day of a fortnight’s rest in Folkestone after a visit from his sisters, Georgie had seen two roadsters in a new automotive showroom just outside that town.  At first the red machine attracted his eye.  At the salesman’s insistence, Georgie climbed into the black leather seat.  But looking in the mirror, Georgie realized that the bright fire-engine red colour of the vehicle clashed “quite horribly” with his auburn hair.  Also, Georgie was wearing his old mustard-coloured suit.  “I look just like the inedible condiments the American airmen put on their ‘hot dogs’ during the War,” he thought with a shudder.  So he turned his attention to the pale yellow convertible and found that the creamy colour looked well with his auburn hair.

 As soon as he settled himself into the Regency red leather seat, he was in love—he knew life would not be bearable without this beautiful machine.  Georgie cautiously asked the price and found that ownership of this convertible beauty was certainly possible, and the salesman assured him that payment arrangements could be made for a gentleman such as himself.  Cadman looked over the Roadster and, with his automotive expertise, proclaimed it would be a good little car for “puttering around” and that he would have no problem keeping it in working order.  At the suggestion of the salesman, Cadman took Georgie on a short “spin” about the town.  The enamoured Georgie was absolutely thrilled to be riding in what he was already thinking of as “my adorable little Roadster.”  Cadman suggested that the Roadster was small enough to be garaged beneath the garden-room at Mallards House if the luggage cart, bicycles, golf clubs and clock golf game, croquet set, football and a cricket bat could be stored elsewhere.  

Georgie hastened to the Bank.  He had not paid much attention to his finances during the War, so long as his exiguous income was unimpaired.  When he inquired, he was quite surprised at how many pounds had accumulated in his account—more than enough to grant his heart’s desire.  He hurried back to the automotive lot, fearful that someone else had already claimed his prize, and was relieved that his Roadster was still there.  He paid for his purchase and arranged for the dealer to store the vehicle.   

Cadman found an estate near Tilling that would, for a small fee, garage the Roadster and allow Mr Pillson to use their long, paved, private roadway to learn how to drive.  Georgie easily mastered the footwork of the clutch, brake and accelerator, “Quite like using the pedals when playing piano,” he said with satisfaction.  The shifting, turning, and driving were more slowly mastered, but with surprisingly little grinding of gears or stalling—Georgie treated his Roadster with the pride and care of a woman with her first baby.  Cadman took his charge seriously and was an exacting teacher; he insisted that tutelage continue until Mr Pillson could “turn on a pin,” demonstrate that he knew all the “rules of the road,” and could drive and park the Roadster “like, begging your pardon, Sir, a proper chauffeur”.  He learned also how to raise and lower the top, since there would be no Cadman along to do it for him.  The estate manager was happy to provide, for another small fee, his time and the estate vehicles for Georgie to learn to park beside, and drive beside, and pass.  

Georgie considered clearing out the storage area beneath the garden-room at Mallards House immediately upon returning home from Folkestone, but that would spoil the surprise, so he told Lucia he was simply clearing out “a few things we never use any more” and left the luggage cart, the bicycles and the croquet set in his erstwhile garage. 

Keeping any secret from a spouse as perceptive as Lucia was nearly impossible.  Her gimlet eye pierced Georgie several times over the weeks whilst he was mastering his machine, but he let nothing slip.   Foljambe was in on the secret, for she and Cadman had unimpeachable discretion, and while Georgie could conceal this venture from his own wife for a time, he was far too ethical to ask Cadman to lie for him.  After purchasing his Roadster, Georgie did put much consideration into whether to tell Lucia.  But I really want to surprise her and show her what a good driver I am, he thought. Once I have my driving licence, then I shall tell her.  She’ll know something’s up—I can’t hide my excitement—but she shan’t know what! 

In fact, Georgie’s elation over his “secret Roadster” was so noticeable as to cause comment in the social circle.  After a successful and exciting morning of driving lessons, Georgie and Lucia went for tea and Bridge at Ye Olde Tea-House with their guests Major Benjy and Elizabeth Mapp-Flint.  Ye Olde Tea-House had been recently reopened by Diva Plaistow, with a limited menu in which small, thin sandwiches of potted-meat patè figured heavily.  The increased post-War prices caused Elizabeth Mapp-Flint to comment that Diva intended to “enrich herself and make paupers of us all.”  In fact, Diva was simply lonely and missed having people to talk to, and the prices were dictated by Diva’s Marchè Noir suppliers.  Elizabeth’s hurtful comment caused some coolness between them. 

Georgie was quite pleased at his driving success this day, for after a short practice, Cadman had announced that “Mr Pillson has mastered the management of the accelerator, brake and clutch” and was ready to move on to actual driving.  Georgie could not help smiling as he focused his attention on the closely-observed and closely-contested game of Bridge.  Even when his partner Elizabeth had to revoke, he kept smiling, although his usual response was a resigned sigh and a shake of his head.  And when he had to pay one-and-six to Major Mapp-Flint for their losses, he kept smiling, although his usual response was to adopt a sad but philosophical demeanor with an undercurrent of irritation at the gloating of the winners.  

~~~~~~~~~~

“Have you noticed Mr Georgie lately?” Diva Plaistow asked Elizabeth Mapp-Flint when they met during the morning shopping the next day.  Their coolness had abated over the tea, paid for by Lucia, the previous afternoon. 

“Indeed I have, dear one,” responded Elizabeth.  “He has the look of a man in love.”  

“Oh, really,” said Diva to cover an incipient snort of distain, for she knew Elizabeth liked to imply that before their marriage Major Benjy and his old, now deceased, friend Captain Puffin had fought a duel over her, conveniently forgetting that both combatants had fled to take the early-morning train to London rather than face each other with pistols on the sand dunes outside Tilling at dawn. 

Elizabeth smiled widely at Diva, showing her teeth, “Yes, Diva dear.  The Look of a Man in Love,” she repeated in her sweetest voice for emphasis. 

“Perhaps,” said Diva, “but with whom?  There’s no one in Tilling, and Olga Bracely is in France singing for the troops still deployed there.” 

“I’ll tell you this: every morning for the last three weeks, ever since he returned from Folkestone, I’ve seen Cadman driving Mr Georgie, in Lucia’s Rolls Royce, down Military Road, past the roadway that leads to Grebe,”  said Elizabeth.  Grebe was Elizabeth’s home now, for she had with considerable financial gain switched houses with Lucia some years earlier. 

“No!” said Diva. 

“Do you think he could have met some floozy in Folkestone and has been going to meet her secretly while She,” meaning Lucia, “practices piano in the garden-room?” conjectured Elizabeth in a voice heavily laden with false concern. 

Diva considered.  The first time the prima donna Olga Bracely came to stay at Mallards House, she was thought to be staying alone with Mr Georgie.  Lucia had let it be known she was visiting a Duchess at Sheffield Castle at the time, but actually had her visit cut short and returned to Tilling.  Until it was revealed that Lucia had been home after all, Tilling seethed with the idea that Mr Georgie had an un-chaperoned theatrical female staying with him.  Diva remembered how shocked she was at herself for admiring Mr Georgie’s aplomb at being alone with the opera star and her disappointment upon learning that Lucia had been there after all.  Also, Mr Georgie was the popular jejune premier of Tilling, going to more tea parties and dinners, playing more Bridge, and dressing better than any other male in their social circle.  Even for the few weeks that Lucia had refused to play Bridge for the usual stakes, trying to take a moral stance that robbed the game of its emotional bread-and-butter, Mr Georgie was always invited when Lucia was not.  Diva was often his Bridge partner during this time, and she intuitively recognized in Mr Georgie a well-controlled but passionate artistic under-current that only Olga Bracely brought to the surface. 

Diva had considered too long.  Elizabeth continued, “Perhaps I should have my Benjy-boy follow the car on his bicycle, like he followed tigers when hunting in India.  He’d soon make short work of this mystery.” 

“I wouldn’t,” responded Diva, “Mr Georgie would make a poor hearth rug.”  

“Rug, indeed!” exclaimed Elizabeth.  And with mystery unsolved, the two ladies parted. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Georgie Pillson was aware that he was getting on in years and had, in an unusual fit of harshness, stood in front of his three-panel dressing mirror and appraised himself.  He was as tall as ever, his small, elegant feet were still well-shod (for well-made and well-kept men’s shoes and boots of waxed calf leather last for years), his smile was still bright (although a few molars had been replaced with false teeth), his kindly wit retained its sharpness and was sullied by neither rancor nor cruelty.  He had to wear glasses for reading and sewing, but so did many people younger than he.  He had some slight loss of hearing but had no fear that he would ever be as deaf as Mrs Antrobus, his former neighbor in Riseholme who used devices and ear trumpets but ultimately had to learn the deaf-and-dumb alphabet to converse.  

So Georgie appraised and decided, tentatively, pending consultation with Mr Oscar, his barber in Queens Road, Hastings, to allow his temples to begin showing a few grey hairs.  He had read of a way to comb the auburn dye through his hair so that not all strands were coated.  This touch of grey would be his acknowledgement before Lucia, before Olga Bracely, before the world of Tilling, that he was a man of mature years, a boy no longer.  Perhaps, over the next ten or fifteen years he could gradually let the amount of grey increase, but only if Mr Oscar was able to work his tonsorial magic with the dye bottle and comb.  Georgie had a second reason to visit Mr Oscar in Queens Road:  he was in need of a new toupee. 

Three weeks after his return from Folkestone Georgie had further sad, but good, news.  A letter informed him that his tailor (also in Queens Road, Hastings), the elder Mr Kerridge of Kerridge and Sons, had died.  Kerridge fils had written to say he had discovered in his father’s house a forgotten room full of pre-war cloth and notions suitable for casual suits, waistcoats and ties, and also various bespoke, but never claimed, suits.  Because Mr Pillson had been such a good customer, young Kerridge wondered if Mr Pillson would like to have “first look.”  The thought of feeling new fabrics, matching new colors and patterns, deciding on style, as well as the relief of no longer having to mend, instead of replace, clothing filled Georgie with hope.  His wardrobe had suffered the degradation of rationing and needed replacement.   He realized that, if rationing did not end soon, he would be as shabby as Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, a leading proponent of patriotic “mend and make due.”  At least he had better sense than to trim his clothing with strips of worn-out skin from the tiger that used to be a hearth rug.  He was so eager, he made a trunk call to Mr Kerridge fils to arrange a day to see the proffered fabrics, lest another “good customer” take precedence.  

When laying out his plan to Lucia at breakfast the next morning, Georgie explained about the “found money” from his account at the Bank, and the “found fabric” at the tailors.  Since his mustard-coloured suit was old—after all, he wore it for going away after he and Lucia were married—he decided to visit his tailor and his barber.  “Two new suits, possibly three, if they have good material,” he said when he told Lucia he intended to spend two days in Hastings. 

“Oh, Georgie!  What a wonderful stroke of luck! ‘Oo let Lucia buy one of your suities as a present—a celebration that the War is over.  Have Kerridge send me the bill,” said Lucia.  “Take Cadman and Foljambe, let them have a little holiday, too.”  Foljambe was Georgie’s pretty parlor maid and valet as well as Cadman’s wife. Knowing that Georgie liked to be quite alone whilst visiting his barber, Lucia did not ask to accompany her spouse.  

“Yes, I shall.  And if they have any cloth suitable for ladies’ clothing, shall I claim it for you?” asked Georgie.  Lucia answered affirmative.  

I shall have a new suit and a new Roadster!  And my Roadster will offset the grey hair.  That will be grand!  I’m glad the War’s over; it was too, too tarsome! I’m certainly glad I always paid my tailor’s bills promptly and never haggled over prices! thought the ebullient Georgie. 

During his sartorial safari to Hastings, Georgie also planned to go to the Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency and take his tests to obtain his driving licence.  He thought sadly that he had just missed the time when, during the War, driving licence tests were not required.  The estate manager who had facilitated Georgie’s learning to drive had a young nephew, recently returned from military service in France, who was now working at the Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency.  As this happy coincidence ensured that Georgie was expected and would receive a sympathetic review at the Agency, Georgie’s nervousness eased considerably, although he had to take several aspirins the night before leaving to calm himself.  He did so look forward to driving up to Mallards House in his adorable Roadster, and gaily honking the horn under the garden-room window.  I must see the look on Lucia’s face when she realizes it’s me who’s driving! thought Georgie. 

All arrangements had been made and Georgie, accompanied by Cadman and their shared Foljambe, departed Tilling in the morning.  They first stopped at the farm to retrieve the adorable Roadster.  The estate manager was sorry to see them go but was pleased with the money he had so easily made and with the gratuity from Mr Pillson.  Cadman drove the Roadster with Georgie riding beside him.  Foljambe, who had been taught to drive by her husband, followed behind driving Lucia’s Rolls Royce. 

After much deliberation, Georgie had settled on going first to the tailor, then to the barber, and leaving the morning following for his visit to the Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency.   If he failed his tests and did not procure his licence, he would still have the arrival of the new clothing and a new toupee to assuage his disappointment. 

In planning his visit to the tailor, Georgie had purchased several magazines containing men’s fashions, including his favorite, His Style.  He studied the photographs and drawings carefully.  He noticed that the jackets were roomier, unstructured, and read that there was no interlining in the jackets.  He knew he needed a new classic English double-breasted jacket with his tailor’s signature oxblood red lining.  Summer was approaching and new cream-coloured linen or flannel worsted trews or a full suit would be pleasant to have; he had heard such suits referred to as “ice cream suits,” which amused him.  A couple of new waistcoats would go well under the old jackets.  And he simply must have new trousers made with heavier fabric than the last ration-card pair he had gotten; the light fabric did not drape properly.  

He remembered some years before the War when he, daringly, had been the wearer of Oxford trousers; how he would love to have the fine fabric culled from the voluminous “bags” to use now.  Although the War had brought out talents in him that he never dreamed that he possessed, it had also spoiled and destroyed so many other things for him.  Georgie sighed philosophically and returned to his sartorial and tonsorial daydreaming. 

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After checking in at the Royal Victoria Hotel, Georgie left Foljambe to unpack and had Cadman drive him to Queens Road.  He was met at the door of Kerridge and Sons by Kerridge fils, who rode in the front seat with Cadman to the small home of Kerridge pere, where the bolts of fabric were hidden.  Georgie sighed with pleasure, for here was flannel and silk, Tattersall plaid in a variety of colours, wool in several shades including Donegal tweed and herringbone, as well as several other fabrics. The man and his tailor discussed styling, Georgie repeating what he had read about jackets in the magazines and requesting that the trousers be rather loose and high-waisted in the latest style.  Trying unsuccessfully not to be greedy, Georgie quickly told Kerridge what he needed.  

For summer: 

one “ice-cream” suit of ten-ounce flannel;

one eau de nil silk double-breasted jacket;

one pair of trousers in light-weight wool with dark green and brown plaid on an

off-white background;

one silk suit in a luminous pearl grey colour.

For autumn:

one pair of doe-skin brown trousers in a wonderfully soft brushed flannel;

one jacket of twelve-ounce Donegal tweed in shades of rust and brown.

For winter:

one pair of medium blue trousers in standard flannel;

one suit of twelve-ounce Donegal herringbone in shades of blue;

three Tattersall waistcoats, one in cream with rust, blue and mustard stripes, one in fawn with dark brown and yellow stripes, one in dark blue with bright blue and white stripes.

Kerridge explained that the bespoke casual suits were all of winter-weight wool.  A fawn-coloured suit and a charcoal-grey suit were chosen.  And one bespoke black silk dinner suit was ordered as well.  Kerridge suggested a mustard-coloured fabric, but Georgie shuddered and said, “I’ve been wearing the mustard suit your father made for me since before the War.  No mustard, please!” 

Kerridge had omitted to mention that there was a large supply of factory-made, pre-war Arrow shirts—Heaven knows where his father obtained such American shirts, although one understood why Father hid them.  Regardless, Georgie quickly and joyously selected a dozen in various colours, including light pink, lavender and lilac, the lightest brown, caffe-au-lait and several shades of blue.  He was surprised that they fit him rather well.  

In a large box, tossed in as if an after-thought, were packages of buttons:  buttons of machined pewter, buttons of faceted stones, buttons of cabochons set in silver, buttons of hand-carved semi-precious stone packaged in Chinese brocade, buttons of cultured pearl and mother of pearl and abalone and shell.  Georgie matched these to his suits and ordered some extra be used to “brighten up” the bespoke suits.    

Kerridge knew he was well ahead of the game financially at this point, and he promised to make a half-dozen ties to go with the shirts as an “extra” at no cost. 

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His greed satisfied, Georgie noticed in the corner two racks.  One contained ladies’ suits and he inquired about them.  Kerridge said that his mother, who was a skilled dressmaker, had used the more feminine fabrics to create suits in the latest style.  These were based upon an American fashion called a Zoot Suit and featured padded shoulders and straight skirts.  Georgie purchased three of these suits for Lucia, on approval.  Mrs Kerridge promised to create blouses in white and cream silk to go with the suits.

 The second rack Georgie recognized as maids’ uniform dresses.  Kerridge informed him that, just after the War began, a local hotel (not the Royal Victoria) had ordered the uniforms but, when time came for payment, had gone bankrupt.  Georgie considered; if he bought new uniforms for Foljambe, it would undoubtedly upset Grosvenor, Lucia’s maid.  And then there were the scullery maid and cook to think of.  But Grosvenor, Daisy the scullery maid, and Cook were in Lucia’s employ.  Mrs Kerridge, seeing Mr Pillson’s hesitation, spoke up and said she was “tired of looking at them” and it would be a “blessing” if he took them off her hands.  Cadman was sent back to the hotel to retrieve Foljambe for consultation. 

Georgie was, at this point, rather concerned about the cost, but knowing that Foljambe had been several years without a good-quality uniform dress, Georgie would sacrifice the one of his suits and a waistcoat in order to make Foljambe happy.  When Georgie explained this to Mrs Kerridge, that kind lady wiped away a genuine tear and said, in the accents of her native Essex, that he could have the dresses “at cost.”  Georgie was not certain what “at cost” meant, but he was genuinely grateful and said so. 

Foljambe arrived and chose two dresses each for herself, Grosvenor, Daisy and Cook, which left only four dresses on the rack.  Georgie thought of his new Roadster; he thought of his new outfits; he thought of his new toupee—and he told Mrs Kerridge that he would take all twelve uniform dresses off her hands.  Mrs Kerridge, happy to get hard cash for long-unsold wares, reduced the price a further ten percent.  With this concession, Georgie was relieved to learn that he had to sacrifice only one waistcoat, so he cancelled his order of the cream Tattersall:  its mustard-coloured stripes were its death knell. 

Cadman stated that his old uniforms were still good, since he had worn a different uniform throughout the War, and he refused the offer of new clothing, saying the new dresses for Foljambe were more than generous.  Cadman was thinking that Mr Pillson had insisted upon paying him for driving lessons although he did not have to.  But Georgie pressed him, so he accepted two of the Arrow shirts.  Thus ended the orgy of generosity, and everyone was happy.  “Now we shall all be Hitum and Titum, but not Scrub!” said Georgie buoyantly.   At the puzzled look on the faces of Mrs Kerridge and her son, he explained Hitum as evening dress, Titum was a nice suit, and Scrub was exactly what it sounded like; mother and son laughed happily at the joke. 

The choosing and fitting took most of the day, with a short break for a “picnic lunch” prepared by the widow.  In a state of blissful fashion satiation, Georgie insisted upon paying the widow “for that most delicious luncheon” which consisted of bread and cheese.  It was late afternoon when he bid adieu to mother and son, who promised that the clothing would be delivered with the utmost discretion within the week.  Foljambe took away Cadman’s shirts and all the uniform dresses, for she and Grosvenor could do all the alterations needed on those items. 

Cadman then drove Georgie back to Queens Road to Mr Oscar, who was happy to supply another toupee and showed Georgie how to use the small comb and brush, like those used by ladies for eyelash blacking, only larger, to leave a touch of grey at his temples.  Georgie had his hair dyed and cut, was steamed and lathered and shaved and manicured and pedicured, and had his face and scalp and hands and feet massaged with emollient oils.  Cadman drove Foljambe back to the hotel whilst Georgie was “being seen to.”  Looking and feeling ten years younger, Georgie returned to the Royal Victoria wreathed in smiles and with a spring in his step, as befitted Tilling’s jejune premier .

Focused on the pleasures of the day, Georgie had laid aside his concern over his impending driving test.  Anxiety tickled the back of his mind but he was determined not to let it become his foremost thought until morning.  While his bath was filling, he surveyed the stunning sea view from his window.  He was happy.  Foljambe was happy with her new uniforms; she praised their quality and sang, badly, as she laid out his newest old, soon to be replaced, dinner suit. 

  

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As Georgie walked down the Royal Victoria’s marble staircase, he glanced at himself in the 20-foot mirror, thanked God and Kerridge that he would soon have new clothing, and entered the dining room.  He surveyed the menu, which was severely limited by continuing food shortages, and saw that they were serving Woolton Pie with bacon and parsnips.  Georgie ordered and waited to see if the Royal Victoria’s Chef made a better Woolton Pie than he did. 

“Perhaps,” he mused, “the Chef has stolen my recipe.”  This thought reminded him of his wife’s signature dish of Lobster à la Riseholme, the recipe of which was stolen by Elizabeth Mapp who, after failing to guess the ingredients and failing to bribe Lucia’s cook, copied the recipe in Lucia’s kitchen when the servants were away at a charitable whist drive at the Tilling Institute. 

The Woolton Pie arrived, and tasting it, Georgie realized with surprise that the Chef had, indeed, used Georgie’s recipe; he had created the recipe for the Ministry of Food which had caused it to be printed in pamphlets distributed all over the county, and Georgie had prepared it in his cooking programme on BBC radio during the dark days of the War.  He tasted the parsnips.  They, too, tasted just like those he had prepared on his BBC radio programme. 

How tarsome! Georgie thought.  I could have cooked the same thing myself at home!  Oh, well, at least this half-bottle of champagne is drinkable, and there’s a good oyster savoury, and a little cheese to finish.  

With his amateur chef’s palate, he soon figured out the ingredients of the oyster savoury and determined to try this recipe the next time the Wyses came to dinner, for Susan Wyse was very fond of an oyster savoury.  And Lucia’s cook, a wiry Scot called Mrs Urquhardt, did not mind Georgie working in the kitchen on Sunday and on Tuesday afternoons when she was off work. Though at first disappointed in the hotel’s food, with his usual good nature Georgie soon chose to view it as a compliment to his own culinary skill:  it was rather exciting, really, that a Chef in a four star hotel had used his recipes.  

In spite of the half-bottle of champagne, Georgie was becoming increasingly anxious over the impending driving test.  Once again he took several aspirins before retiring, and dreamt that the brake, clutch, and accelerator pedals kept switching places during his test drive on streets clogged with speeding, oversized lorries.  He awakened too early, was unable to go back to sleep, and was found pacing his room by Foljambe, who immediately called Cadman to reassure Georgie of his skill.  Somewhat calmed, Georgie drank his morning tea but could not eat. 

After an eternity, it was time to go.  Cadman drove Georgie in his MG Roadster to the Driver and Vehicle Licencing Office.  Young Mr Pottinger, the estate manager’s nephew, was in and would see Mr Pillson immediately.  Pottinger explained that the written test was first, and if passed, would be followed by the driving test.  So Georgie took the proffered pencil and paper and began answering questions, thanking Providence that the questions were multiple-choice.  He had problems with only three questions, and the choices given helped him narrow down the answers.  To his surprise, he scored 100 percent correct, for Georgie had been certain that he missed two questions.  

Young Pottinger was pleased, “When my first client of the day scores 100 percent, I know it’s going to be a good day,” he told Georgie.  And if Mr Pillson would step outside, they could begin the driving portion of the test.  Nervously, Georgie looked at his adorable Roadster as if it had suddenly become the chariot pulled by the man-eating mares of Diomedes.  “What happens if I fail the driving portion of the test?” he asked Pottinger. 

“Then you come back tomorrow and do the driving test again,” said Pottinger heartily.  “But my uncle said you’d have no trouble.” 

Reassured, Georgie climbed behind the wheel.  He started the vehicle, checked his mirrors, looked all around, signaled his intention to pull away from the kerb, and the test had begun.  Pottinger had him drive through Hastings, making several turns.  Georgie negotiated this easily and began to relax.  At young Pottinger’s direction, Georgie drove to Alexandra Park, beside which he demonstrated his parking skills to his reviewer’s satisfaction.  Pottinger indicated that it was time to return to the Agency, and Georgie pulled back into traffic.  As he slowed at a corner to check for oncoming vehicles, a delivery boy on a motor-bicycle rode toward the Roadster at top speed; terrified that the boy might dent the Roadster, Georgie gunned the engine and pulled forward, avoiding the collision by inches.  

Pottinger gasped, then exclaimed, “Oh, well done, Sir!  I thought he would hit us for sure!  Most new drivers would have frozen up, but you handled it perfectly.  Drive on, Sir, back to the Agency.”  When safely back at the Agency, Pottinger praised Mr Pillson’s driving to the clerk and the other reviewer, telling them that a motorcyclist almost rode straight into them, but Mr Pillson “expertly dodged and avoided the collision.”  Georgie was given his red licence card and congratulated on his success.  

Upon leaving, by habit Georgie started to go around to the passenger side of the Roadster so that Cadman could drive them back to the Royal Victoria. 

“Begging your pardon, Sir,” said Cadman, “seeing as how you are now a licenced driver, you could drive back to the hotel.  I can get a taxi and meet you there.” 

“Nonsense!” said Georgie, smiling, “you shall be my passenger this time, Cadman!” 

Cadman smiled back, nodded, and without hesitation climbed into the passenger side of the Roadster saying, “Just one last time, Sir, for you shan’t be in need of my help anymore.” 

Upon arrival at the Hotel, they found Foljambe was waiting with the bags.  Georgie’s glowing smile told her all had gone well.  “Tell me, Foljambe, would you accept a ride back to Tilling with me driving?”  Georgie teased. 

To his surprise, Foljambe (who had been reassured by her husband’s praise of Mr Pillson’s driving skill) accepted, “Just this once, Sir, I’d like very much to ride with you.  You could drop me just outside Tilling by Military Road, then you could continue on into town, Sir.” 

“I will, indeed, Foljambe,” said Georgie, opening the passenger door of the Roadster for her. 

Foljambe paused before climbing in.  “And I want to thank you so much for the new uniforms; I was so tired of mending the old ones.”  She smiled, her pretty face quite happy, and she seemed not to notice the grey hair at her employer’s temples. 

“I’m quite glad that you like them, I’m sure,” responded Georgie, blushing a little.  And leaving Cadman to manage the luggage and the Rolls Royce, Georgie and Foljambe drove off. 

After dropping Foljambe by the side of the road just outside Tilling, as she insisted, Georgie continued on.  Coming toward him, making their long march back to Grebe from town, were Major Benjy and Elizabeth Mapp-Flint.  They stopped short and stared as Georgie drove past them with a happy wave of his hand and a toot of the horn.  In the mirror he could see Major Benjy staring after him, mouth agape, and Elizabeth looking pinched.  They’re probably thinking of something horrid to say, thought Georgie, but I don’t care!  And he did not care at all. 

He drove carefully through the narrow streets of Tilling, but with the shopping hour over, he saw none of his friends about.  The Roadster, so much smaller than the Rolls, moved deftly over Tilling’s cobbled streets and effortlessly turned the sharp corners.  Georgie pulled up under the garden-room window.  He honked the horn of the Roadster and saw the curtains twitch, then saw them pulled wide by Lucia.  He tooted the horn again, waved gaily, and motioned for Lucia to come down.  She was unable to keep the look of surprise off her face.  She went back through the house and came out the front door. 

“Georgie!  What does this mean!  Have you—?” exclaimed Lucia. 

“Yes, Lucia, I’ve bought my Roadster and I have my driving licence!” confirmed Georgie.  “Grab your hat and hop in!  I’ll take you for a spin ‘round by your almond trees, and then out by the sea.  Do hurry!” 

Lucia needed no urging.  She grabbed her hat, called to Grosvener that she was “going for a ride with Mr Pillson,” and, indeed, “hopped” into the adorable Roadster. 

“Delightful, Georgie!” cried Lucia as they drove through town.  Georgie stopped and let the engine idle by the almond trees that Lucia had donated, whose pink and white flowers decorated the formerly barren hillside below the church.  As they gazed, the Padre and Mrs Bartlett, followed by a group of Girl Guides, rode by on their bicycles.  Once again, mouths dropped open, and Georgie and Lucia waved and started off.  Looking in the mirror, Georgie saw the Padre, looking backward after the Roadster and riding forward, go off the roadway and collided with one of Lucia’s almond trees.  Lucia did not notice. 

“How fast will it go?” Lucia asked. 

With one hand on the wheel, Georgie used the other hand to pull his hat down more securely over his toupee.  “Let us find out!” he cried. 

Laughing, Mr and Mrs Pillson of Mallards House, Tilling, drove off towards the sea.

THE END

Note:  On the men’s fashion advertisments, the artist is Laurence Fellows. All photos and pictures were taken from Google image search, and I apologize if I unknowingly infringed upon anyone's copyright.

  

Text copyright 2011 Kathleen Bradford

Mrs Mapp-Flint Goes to War

Mrs Mapp-Flint Goes to War

It seemed that the War would go on forever.  The chronic shortages of food and fabric and the complete lack of petrol had taken their toll on the population of Tilling.  The Marchè Noir had become more and more important to those citizens who did not mind trading shillings, pounds, guineas, and their clothing ration coupons for the goods offered.  Instead of bustling around each morning with shopping baskets on their arms, gathering foodstuffs, toiletries, and the latest gossip, the good people of Tilling now stood in queues, ration books in hand as well as shopping baskets.  But the spirit of Tilling was unbroken and, if food and toiletries were scarce, gossip was still readily available. 

Because of the shortages, Mrs Godiva Plaistow, “Diva” to her friends, had closed Ye Olde Tea-House, her business, which she ran out of the front rooms of her house called Wasters.  Diva missed the pennies in tips, the shillings for tea and, most of all, being able to chat with customers.  While the Tea-House was open, Diva had a variety in clientele, from Tilling society to shop-boys, and everyone in between; thus, Diva had excellent sources of gossip, and if the customers had talked to each other instead of to Diva, they might find that Diva had excellent hearing.  But those days were over, for now.  Diva’s old friend Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had formerly owned a house in Tilling called Mallards but had, at considerable financial gain, sold Mallards to Lucia Pillson.  Elizabeth often liked to refer to “that dear old family home that once was mine” with a well-practiced wistfulness when talking about Mallards, now called Mallards House.  Whenever Elizabeth did this, Diva now had the corresponding thought of that dear old Tea-House that once was mine, but Diva’s wistfulness was heartfelt indeed.  Without the afternoon full of people, the widowed Diva was lonely.  She looked forward to queuing as it afforded her an opportunity to chat.  She was too often disappointed when a shop ran out of food quickly, not because she missed the food but because she missed talking.

The War affected Diva’s friends as well.  In an effort to keep spirits up, the former Mayor of Tilling, Mrs Emmeline Pillson, called “Lucia,” had organized free book readings, and acting of scenes from the plays of Shakespeare and Euripides, and classical piano recitals to entertain and enlighten the population of Tillling.  She tried to stage tableaux, but after the first, it became too difficult to find materials for costumes; Lucia eschewed the re-use of costumes for she knew that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for one, would make sarcastic remarks if she saw the same costumes appear for a second or third time. This was unfortunate, as the tableaux party was well-attended while Euripides was not.  These entertainments had slowly faded from public interest.  Lucia had spoken of organizing May Day Revels but had dropped the idea when Elizabeth sanctimoniously refused to participate, saying pompously, “our brave soldiers are on the field of battle and I cannot make merry until they safely return home.”  Another, more important, vote against was tendered by Lucia’s husband Georgie, who pointed out that May Day capering would make them appear more foolish than entertaining, with an allusion to Nero’s fiddling while Rome burned.

http://www.ryemuseum.co.uk/index.php/2009/09/

 

So on May Day, instead of dancing ‘round the Maypole, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint stood in the queue ahead of Susan Wyse at Worthington’s, the butcher shop, hoping to procure some sausages.  Elizabeth had in hand the few pages (due to the shortage of paper) that comprised the Tilling Gazette, but more interesting than the published news was finding out what Susan and her husband Algernon Wyse were “up to.”  She learned that Mr Wyse’s sister, the Contessa Amelia Wyse-Faraglione, was visiting their ennobled cousins in Hampshire, the Wyses of Whitchurch, but might return to Tilling for a short visit while she searched for a suitable home in England.  Amelia’s husband, the Italian nobleman Conte Francesco “Cecco” di Faraglione was still fighting against Fascism with the partisans in Italy, and it was a daily worry that he might be killed.  Amelia herself had narrowly managed a daring escape to England a few months earlier and, in disgust over the behavior of Mussolini’s Black Shirts, had hyphenated her English maiden name onto her Italian married name and sworn never again would she speak Italian. All this was old news to Elizabeth, who always thought of Mr Wyse’s sister as “the Faradidleony,” a phrase she “picked up” from Diva.  More promising was Susan’s invitation for Elizabeth and her husband, Major Benjy, to dine at the Wyse’s house in Porpoise Street tomorrow.  

“You should find the written invitation has arrived when you return home from your shopping today,” said Susan who, like her husband, clung tightly to observing the formal courtesies in spite of, or because of, the War. 

Elizabeth got the last of the sausages.  She knew the Wyses regularly traded with the Black Market, so she was glad that Susan got none.  Elizabeth smiled and cooed in her sweetest voice, “So sorry, Susan dear, but I must keep Major Benjy fed or he scolds me dreadfully.” 

Diva was out walking Paddy, her rambunctious Irish terrier, on a lead.  Elizabeth waggled her hand at Diva but did not stop to talk.  These days Paddy was always on a lead, instead of running loose in the streets as Diva had allowed him to do in the past, for Elizabeth had told Diva that some people were so desperate for meat that they had begun eating dogs and cats.  This story was untrue, but Elizabeth did not like Paddy and Paddy did not like Elizabeth (there had been a major contretemps over a rabbit some years ago which Diva, Elizabeth and Paddy remembered well); so Elizabeth felt quite justified in her “little fabrication to keep dear Diva from letting That Dog run wild.”  

Reflecting on a sausage-less Susan and a restrained Paddy, Elizabeth happily hurried down Military Road to her house, called Grebe, just outside of Tilling on the marshes.  Since she was expected for tea and Bridge at Mallards House that afternoon as the guest of Lucia and Georgie Pillson, after lunch she started running a bath, carefully measuring the depth of hot water with a ruler to ensure she did not exceed the patriotic recommendation of five inches.

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth and Benjy arrived at Mallards House at four o’clock and found the other guests were Diva, the Wyses, and Evie Bartlett, the wife of “Padre” Kenneth Bartlett who was kept away from the Bridge table by parochial duties.  Elizabeth’s eyes searched each of her friends’ attire until she was certain that no one was wearing anything new and possibly bought from the Black Market.  It was not so long ago that she, herself, had been accused of purchasing red velvet from the Black Market to make a new dress; this was untrue, as she had made the dress out of a pair of old curtains that she had found in a cupboard.  Even her husband had accused her of Black Market dealings, having found an orange in a desk drawer.  These accusations, and her inability to prove her innocence, had wounded her deeply and fed her desire for revenge. 

Upon entering the Garden Room of Mallards House, Elizabeth and Benjy were greeted by Georgie Pillson, who was famous for his miraculous food substitutions and the imaginative ways he had with vegetables.  In fact, his cooking was so good that the leaders of the free world had chosen to hold a secret meeting at Mallards House (referred to by Lucia and Georgie as “The Visit”), and he had his own cooking programme on the BBC as well as a pamphlet of recipes that was distributed across the country by the Ministry of Food.  Because he was constantly devising new recipes and food substitutions, Georgie received foodstuffs from the Ministry.  There was no shortage of food at Mallards House, but there was frequently an over-abundance of the one vegetable, grain or meat that Georgie was working with.  Happy and well-fed were those friends who were bidden to luncheon, tea, or dinner at Mallards House. 

Georgie told his guests that he was trying some new recipes for sandwich patè and Swedish-style flatbread, instead of regular bread or crackers, which saved on butter and lard.  The polished mahogany table which had, in the past, held much food and drink, was not so heavily laden as before the War, but still had more food on it than most of the guests had become accustomed to.  There were large trays of patè on flatbread:  Georgie had discovered that a cake decorator’s tube with various specialty tips would allow the smooth patè to be squeezed out in pretty, decorative shapes, so each of the three patès had its own shape; this made it easy for the “consumer research team” to know which patè was which.  There were also a large number of fishcakes; fish was one of the few things that were not rationed, although shortages were not uncommon.  And there were some small oatcakes made with local honey and served with what Georgie genially acknowledged as “Mrs Mapp-Flint’s delicious home-made plum jam.”  Beneath each tray was a starched linen cloth, edged in lace and beautifully embroidered by Georgie with flowers, leaves, and vines of Jacobean design. 

http://www.emblibrary.com/el/new.aspx?date=032206

With the money she made in the stock market before the War, Lucia had prudently filled her cellar, so there was whisky for Major Benjy and sherry for Mr Wyse’s connoisseur’s palate, as well as tea.  As the ladies’ picked up their plates, Major Benjy noticed his wife’s attention was distracted, and he quickly fixed himself a very large whisky with very little soda. 

Elizabeth stood next to Diva as they filled their plates.  “Fish!  Eternally fish!” said Elizabeth disparagingly.  

“Don’t know,” said Diva as she bit into a fishcake.  Mouth full, she suddenly began to make a moaning sound and roll her eyes. 

“What’s the matter, Diva!” exclaimed Elizabeth, with alarm.  “Is it a fish bone?” she asked hopefully:  it would serve Georgie right if it was. 

Diva swallowed and took a rather large drink of sherry.  “Delicious!” she exclaimed, “Never tasted anything so good!” Turning to Georgie she said, “Going to steal your recipe.  For my tea house, when the War’s over!” 

Georgie smiled widely and said, “Thank you, Diva, thank you. So gratified that you like them.” 

As the ladies moved away from the table, the gentlemen moved up to fill their plates, and Georgie called for Foljambe to bring another tray of fishcakes.  Major Benjy grumbled a little at the dainty “open-faced flatbread finger sandwiches,” as Georgie called them, but he dutifully filled his plate with fish-cakes and piled as many of the “sandwiches” as he could on top of them.  “Fishcakes and oatcakes,” he boomed jovially, “wonderful food!”  Major Benjy, who had served in India, liked a man to be a man, and Georgie, with his feminine embroidery and petit point, his dyed hair and toupee, and his fastidiously fashionable suits, irritated Major Benjy.  This irritation did not extend to refusing food or drink when a guest at Mallards House, for Major Benjy partook heartily of the food and drank as much liquor as he was able to get when his wife was not watching him. 

As usual, Elizabeth asked in her sweetest voice if she could have the recipe and, as usual, Georgie replied that it had to remain secret until prepared on his BBC radio programme or published by the Ministry of Food in a pamphlet.  This exchange had become a regular part of any meal when Elizabeth was a guest at Mallards House.  The word “recipe,” once so fraught with negative associations, had regained common usage.  Elizabeth used the word more often than was necessary, as if constantly reminding everyone of her burglary and theft of Lucia's recipe for Lobster à la Riseholme would negate her larcenous behavior.  Even Diva, who has a commercial interest, knows better than to ask, thought Georgie, Mapp would be tarsome about it! 

Turning away from Elizabeth’s widest smile, Georgie went to Diva and offered her a small bundle wrapped in a lacy napkin.  “Hold out your hands,” Georgie said teasingly.  He placed the bundle in her hands and let the napkin fall away, revealing six small pieces of nougat, Diva’s favourite candy, which had been made by Georgie with no nougat in them at all.  After exclaiming her thanks, Diva offered the nougat to the others.  Lucia and Georgie as the hosts, Mr Wyse as the connoisseur, and Major Benjy as the drunkard all refused with thanks.  Major Benjy emptied his large glass and positioned himself so that, when Diva offered the all-too-rare treats to his wife, he could quickly refill his glass with whisky.  Mouse-like Evie Bartlett squeaked her thanks as she took one, Susan Wyse demurred but took one when pressed to do so by Diva, who knew that Susan also liked nougat, and Elizabeth smiled widely and thanked Diva profusely for her generosity “for we all know how much you love nougat, Diva dear.”  Elizabeth was maliciously sorry that others had refused the candies, as she would have liked to see the other guests accept, leaving only one or, better yet, none for Diva; she must remind her Benjy-boy to take one next time.  Diva delicately placed the first of the three remaining pieces of nougat in her mouth and savoured the taste, trying to remember how long ago it had been since she had eaten one—years ago, surely—but Mr Georgie was so very inventive in the kitchen and Diva was flattered that he had taken so much trouble to please her. 

After everyone had rendered their opinions on patè (two of which were liked, the third, banished to the kitchen for the servants) and flatbread (good enough for war-time fare) and rendered their congratulations on the delicious fishcakes to Mr Georgie, two tables were formed for Bridge.  There were three married couples to separate, so one table consisted of Lucia partnered with Mr Wyse playing against Major Benjy partnered with Evie Bartlett; the other table was Mr Georgie partnered with Elizabeth playing against Diva and Mrs Wyse.  Elizabeth knew that Diva and Mrs Wyse were not good players and expected to win easily.  She began to consider some unpleasant things to say, after the game, about her partner and opponents (but not to them), such as, “Sweet Susan believes that she is psychic but was completely flummoxed by Diva’s psychic bids.” 

Elizabeth expected to take home a few shillings and pence as her winnings; however, the cards thought otherwise, and the team of Georgie and Elizabeth was defeated in the first rubber.  Elizabeth became shrill in denying her part in their loss, claiming that if Georgie had not bid three hearts, she would not have had to revoke.  But she lowered her voice to a hiss when Mr Wyse turned to look at her inquiringly:  he believed in civilized behavior at the card table.  Georgie shrugged and sighed, while the winners congratulated each other.
 

There followed a short break in which the Bridge players were served more weak tea and good sherry and pre-War (the Great War, not the current one) whisky along with another tray of the delectable fish cakes.  The remaining oatcakes were devoured and pronounced exquisite, although Elizabeth offered the opinion that her plum jam was what had “made them so palatable.”  Then the players resumed their seats for another rubber, which Georgie and Elizabeth also lost.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

On the walk back to Grebe, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint commented on how long it had been since Mr Georgie had appeared in any new clothing and said her Bridge partner was looking quite shabby lately.  “Perhaps the work of a common cook has coarsened him,” she said.  “And it is so sad that Lucia lost all of her officers since they have all been deployed,” she continued.  By tacit agreement, neither of the Mapp-Flint’s mentioned The Visit of the great men who had graced the table at Mallards House a few weeks earlier.  “I wonder how they managed to procure the ingredients for that nougat,” Elizabeth wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer from her inebriated and rather uncommunicative husband. 

“Probably from the Black Market,” Major Benjy replied. “You know, Liz, all our friends buy from the Black Marketeers—” he began. 

“But we shall not,” responded Elizabeth with some heat, generated mostly by her loss of two shillings, four pence, and the memory of being falsely accused of trading with criminals.  “The Black Market, or the Marchè Noir as our friends romantically call it, is illegal and immoral!  Why, they’re taking the food out of the mouths of babes and children!  It should be stopped!” 

“Not much chance of that, Liz.”  

“But you are the Commander of the Tilling Home Guard—you could do something, surely?” said Elizabeth.  “I know you, with your vast military experience, could run these malefactors down, since the police do not seem to be able to do anything.” 

Major Benjy merely grunted as he tried to keep from stumbling.  The Black Market provided large amounts of whisky and beer to the Home Guard, gratis, and Major Benjy was not interested in interfering in the Marketeers’ business and losing his supply of free liquor. 

Elizabeth was thinking hard.  She wanted to devise a plan that would stop the Wyses and Diva and Lucia and Georgie from illegally obtaining rare and rationed items, a plan that would glorify her husband (and by extension herself) as more than just a mere Home Guard leader.  She took Benjy’s arm in a gesture that appeared to be more intimate than any that had passed between the two in several months but was actually intended to keep her intoxicated husband from lurching into the ditch. 

“Just think, Benjy, of the accolades you would receive if you exposed and had arrested the ring of Black Marketeers that surround Tilling.  Think of the acclaim.  Why, you might even be asked to the Palace or be awarded your own MBE!  Major Benjamin Flint, Member of the British Empire.  That would stop all the swanking by the Pillsons and the Wyses.” 

Major Benjy’s ego had suffered a bit lately.  As a retired military man, people had listened deferentially to his opinions on the War and how it should be conducted, even when he suggested that the Americans should invade by way of Finland.  But Lucia and Miss Milliner Michelangelo (as he thought of Georgie) had world leaders and army commanders to dinner one time and now Lucia had usurped his place.  Throughout their game of Bridge, the irritating woman had frequently brought up current war issues, troop movements and counter-movements, and implied she knew all about them before-hand, and further implied that she knew what was planned for the future, though of course, she couldn’t divulge any of her knowledge:  it was a matter of National Security. 

“You’re right, Girlie.  But what am I to do?” asked Benjy, more to soothe Elizabeth than to agree with her. 

“Don’t worry, Benjy-boy; I’ll think of something!” responded his intrepid wife.

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint arose early, as usual, and spent some time gazing across the marsh while she drank her morning cup of tea.  This was not the weak, effete brew that she served guests as her part in the War Effort, but a strong cup of India tea from her secret stash.  She had always kept her kitchen well-stocked with tea and sugar and flour and tinned meats and dried fruit and home-made jams and preserves and other toothsome viands.  There was a small room off the kitchen at Grebe, used by the previous owner for odds-and-ends, which Elizabeth had caused to be made into an additional larder.  She kept this larder locked, so that no one could ever again cause “my poor little Christmas presents for needy parishioners” to come tumbling out.  She frequently took inventory to make sure that the servants had not found a way to unlock it and steal from her.  Her cook and Withers, the parlourmaid, were the only servants Elizabeth had, other than Coplen, the gardener, who came for three afternoons each week.  These worthies were too old to work in the War Effort.  They had laboured for Elizabeth for many years now, but still she suspected them of abusing her limited supply of sugar.  She was down to less than ninety-four pounds of sugar now, and there were spaces in her larder that must perforce remain unfilled until rationing and shortages ceased.  She thought of herself as prudent; others would say she was hoarding. 

Over her cup of strong tea, with sugar, but without cream, she put her mind to work.  In order to “get at” the Black Market, she had to know who ran it.  If she asked Diva Plaistow, everyone in town would know within minutes that she had abandoned her patriotic principles.  If she asked Susan Wyse, the same thing would happen, only more slowly.  Evie Bartlett and the Vicar did not have enough money to trade with the Black Market (Elizabeth assumed), and asking Lucia or Mr Georgie was completely out of the question.  Who would tell her, and keep the fact that she had sought the information a secret, never knowing that she intended to use the information to “break the Black Market”? 

Elizabeth always perched her invitations on her fireplace mantel-piece so that her friends could see them.  Whenever she received an invitation from the Wyses, she said, “I shall perch you on my mantle, just like Blue-Birdie but less messy!” referring to Susan Wyse’s late pet, which had been killed when Susan unknowingly sat upon it.  This morning the invitation to dinner from Susan Wyse caught her eye and provided the answer she sought.  Of course! Mr Wyse!  As a gentleman of refined manners, he would not betray any confidence given him by a lady.  At dinner tonight, she must find a moment when Susan was not in the room to ask him.  Thus, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint began to develop several strategies, consider every contingency, and plan her attack on the Black Market.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs Mapp-Flint’s war began that evening.  When Elizabeth and Benjy arrived at the Wyse’s, they found no other guests.  Boon was now butler and valet and footman, as Figgis, Mr Wyse’s former valet, was now batman to a British officer in Hove.  Boon opened the door to admit them and grunted a little as Benjy moved quickly past him and into the sitting room, hoping that if he were quick enough, he would have a drink in hand before a disapproving Elizabeth entered.  His daily exertions on behalf of the Home Guard, he felt, entitled him to a drink now and then.  After Elizabeth had lingered in the hallway for a few moments, Mr Wyse exited the sitting room and bowed to her as she pretended to struggle with her coat. 

“Dear Lady,” he said, “allow me to assist you.”  As they stood in the hallway, Elizabeth quickly asked for the information she needed.  Mr Wyse obliged and swore he would not tell a soul that she had to resort to the Marchè Noir for sugar with which to make her jam.  Her initial reconnaissance complete, Elizabeth was escorted by Mr Wyse into the sitting room, and she accepted a glass of sweet brown sherry as she greeted Susan.  So pleased was Elizabeth with her success that she failed for some minutes to notice that Benjy had obtained a large snifter full of aged Napoleon brandy and was emptying it as quickly as he could. 

Elizabeth learned: Mr Williamson, a newcomer to Tilling, worked as a porter at the train station and made arrangement for farmers to trade their goods on the Black Market; he had flat feet and connections in London.  Mr Hopkins, the fishmonger, sometime artist’s model, and Withers’ erstwhile suitor, was involved in transporting the illicit goods and knew where everything was hidden throughout the town.  And Mr Kelley at the Globe Inn, a pub on Military Road where Major Benjy sometimes stopped (mistakenly thinking that Elizabeth would not notice), was another nefarious Black Marketeer specializing in liquor.  Tilling had a long history as a base for smugglers of all sorts, the Marchè Noir was able to utilise existing hiding holes, false walls, basement rooms and hidden cupboards to cache their wares. 

As they walked home from the Wyse’s, Elizabeth announced to her husband that she had learned who ran the Black Market in Tilling.  Major Benjy huffily asked who did so; because of his defiant and boyish manner, Elizabeth deduced that her husband already knew who the miscreants were and had failed to share the information with her.  He was always defiant when he was trying to hide something, as if challenging her to combat, which indeed he was and which indeed he was bound to lose.  Elizabeth held her peace until they were in the sitting room at Grebe, then she began to gently confront her recalcitrant husband.  “I know that you know who these criminals are, Benjy-boy.  Don’t deny it,” she said coaxingly.  

Her husband, who was again slightly intoxicated with someone else’s liquor, stared blearily at her, swaying slowly.  “Well, yes, Liz, as Commander of Tilling Home Guard, I know these things,” he said slowly and solemnly, “it is my duty.”  Benjy was remembering that Kelley at the Globe and Hopkins, who had not signed the roll and ultimately refused to be Home Guard Sergeant under Major Benjy’s direction, generously supplied Black Market beverages for the Home Guard “dinners.” 

“Then why haven’t you stopped them?” his wife asked, becoming indignant. 

“It’s like this, Girlie:  they stay out of the way of the Tilling Home Guard.  We have enough to watch for with a German invasion imminent.  They’ve installed tank traps on Tilling Hill.”

WW2 Tank traps, Rye Hill, East Sussex by Pat Linsley All Rights Reserved http://www.flickr.com/photos/cyberbia/4223019032/

Elizabeth paused.  “Do you really think they’ll invade?” she asked, side-tracked by images of grey-uniformed Nazis occupying Grebe, wantonly devouring her sugar and goose-stepping on what was left of her sweet flower garden. 

“There’s no telling, Liz.  We must be vigilant!  But we cannot stand vigil against the foe if we’re out chasing our own.  If you wish to stop the Black Market, take your information to Inspector Morrison; I’m sure he’ll appreciate the intelligence. And now, I wish to go up; I’m tired out,” said Major Benjy.  He saluted his wife and marched out of the room and up the stairs.  Once in the safety of his room, he sighed and began searching through the wardrobe for the flask he knew was hidden inside and filled with Black Market whisky.  He took a swig and sat on the edge of his bed, wishing he was still single and living in his old house with the voluptuous Heather Gillespie as his housekeeper.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Elizabeth Mapp-Flint considered going to Tilling Police Station to talk to Inspector Morrison.  But the Inspector had failed to catch the larcenous juveniles from the slums by the railway tracks who had been scrumping her plums and apples all summer and autumn.  No, it would be better if she gathered all the evidence herself and presented it to the Inspector.  That way he would have no choice but to interrogate the suspects and confront them with her evidence, thereby forcing them to confess their horrid crimes. 

Following up on her information from Mr Wyse, Elizabeth entered Hopkins’ fish shop that morning and paid her bill with a wide smile.  She lingered over the purchase of a remarkably large flounder until the other customers had left the shop.  She then turned to Hopkins, her mouth opening and closing, rather like a fish, while she tried to say the words.  Finally, “Mr Hopkins, would you happen to know where I can get sugar?  I need to start buying some in order to make my preserves and jellies.  Strawberry season will soon be here and no one in town has any sugar for sale, or if they do it’s so severely rationed that I can’t obtain enough.” 

Hopkins smiled knowingly and winked at Mrs Mapp-Flint who, although irritated by this forwardness, smiled her widest and tired to look hopeful.  “Seeing as how you’re Miss Withers’ employer, I may be able to put in a good word for you with some friends of mine,” said the fishmonger.  “I don’t s’pose you’d be willing to give Miss Withers a half-day off this week; I’d like to take her to Bexhill for an afternoon.”  Hopkins was allowed petrol for the transport of his wares. 

Elizabeth was barely able to keep from grinding her teeth in frustration.  But mindful of her need to gather the evidence that would bring the full weight of the law to bear against these criminals, she said sweetly, “Oh, Mr Hopkins! Of course Withers may have an afternoon off!  What day would you prefer?”  He named the day.  Elizabeth could not help her natural tendency to over-dramatize.   She placed her finger on her temple and said, “Let me think, Mr Hopkins.  Have I any guests expected on that day?”  She put on her pensive expression.  “No, I don’t think I do.  But as an afternoon out will make Withers so very happy, if I have any engagements, I shall cancel them just for you!”  She hoped he would give her the sugar soon so that she could cancel Withers’ half-day off the morning that the outing was to occur. 

Hopkins nodded sagely; he had endured too many vituperative arguments with Mrs Mapp-Flint regarding her bill and the quality of his fish to believe that she was truly pleased.  He thought he would “hold out.”  He touched his forehead where his cap would be if he were wearing one.  This gesture reminded Elizabeth of the time she encountered him in the studio of local artist “Quaint” Irene Coles.  His work as an artist’s model had left him clothed only in an abbreviated swimming suit.  The lack of clothing and the plethora of strong male flesh had totally unsettled Miss Mapp (as she was then).  She had retreated to the safety of the street as quickly as possible.  Fortunately, Quaint Irene was away hauling coal barges in the Midlands so no repeat of this embarrassing episode was imminent. 

“Well, Ma’am,” Hopkins said, wondering why Mrs Mapp-Flint had so suddenly become flushed, “I’ll speak to my friends and get back to you.  It may not be this week, though.  Sugar is hard to come by these days.”  He was not going to give her the proscribed sugar until after he had his afternoon out with Withers. 

“Of course, Mr Hopkins.  Please let me have a nice bit of sole for the Major’s dinner.”  She paused; she intended to order flounder for the servants, but Hopkins affection for Withers might cause him to take offense.  She delicately moistened her lips and plunged on: “And some extra for the kitchen, too; just Withers and Cook, now, with this terrible War on.”  Sole was more costly than flounder, but if she was to ensnare the amoral Hopkins in her web of justice, she would have to invest in disarming and entangling him.  Sole (though woefully expensive) along with Withers may be the lures she needed.  Perhaps she might get a reward for catching the criminals and recoup her shillings.  With her sole in her market basket, she trudged home. 

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had intended to visit the fishmonger’s shop again soon, but she realized that it would be best to wait until after Withers’ afternoon out.  Fear of scaring off her prey struggled with her desire to catch the Black Marketeers quickly and to cut off the supply of comestibles to the Wyses and Diva and, most of all, to Mallards House.

~~~~~~~~~~

With a letter in her hand, the Duchess of Whitby sat in her country house, which had been converted to a hospital except for a small wing where the Duchess lived with a few servants.  The German blockade had become ineffective due to convoys from America, so some relief was trickling into Britain.  With that trickle were several large crates which had been shipped from Lady Adele Brixton in Newport, Rhode Island, to Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, some time ago but only now arrived.  They contained food, toiletries, and some bolts of fabric.  Marcia had not had a chance to sort through it all, for she had chosen to read the accompanying letter first, hungry for news of her friend Adele.  She read most of the letter with great enjoyment, but then her pleasure began to turn to irritation.  Adele was an American who preferred to live in England and was married to the Englishman Lord Brixton, who preferred to live in America, so that they never saw one another; this arrangement suited both of the parties involved.  Just before the War began, Lord Brixton decided to come back to England to visit an ailing relative.  This had necessitated that Adele pack and sail for America.  And then the War began, and Adele was “stuck” in America and her husband was “stuck” in Britain for the duration. 

“The only good part is that I can send packages to my friends, although God knows when they’ll arrive,” wrote Adele.  Further down in her letter was the cause of Marcia’s irritation:  “You’re going to hate me for this, so prepare yourself, Marcia, as I have to ask a great favour of you.  I know you remember Lucia Lucas, now Lucia Pillson, from a season in London some years ago; well, one of the crates you receive from me is for Lucia, and I want you to take its contents to her.” 

Damn! thought Marcia.  She continued reading, “Lucia has been widowed, moved to Tilling and remarried since the London season when she mercilessly pursued you with invitations to her house in Brompton Square—but you appreciated neither the invitations nor what a splendid snob that Lucia is.  I want you to see that the goods in the crate marked ‘Lucia Pillson care of the Duchess of Whitby’ reach their destination.” 

Marcia had been feeling quite happy at hearing from her friend, but now she again half-heartedly damned Adele Brixton.  Marcia decided to combine business with displeasure and visit two working farms she had near Tilling, neither of which had accommodations for her; she would stay with Lucia in Tilling and deliver the goods. She had been taught from childhood to never put off any odious duty, but to get it done as soon as possible, so instead of laying aside the letter and sorting through the gifts Adele had sent, she picked up her telephone and had the operator placed a trunk call to Lucia Pillson of Tilling.

~~~~~~~~~~

The day after Elizabeth’s fell visit to Hopkins, Lucia Pillson, chatelaine of Mallards House, was in the garden-room practicing the treble of some Chopin ètudes, arranged for four hands.  Her husband was out, queuing for whatever food he could find and getting the day’s gossip.  Lucia had the soft pedal down, as she did not want to risk Georgie hearing her practicing on the sly if he came home via Church Square rather than up West Street where she would see his approach through the window.  

Foljambe entered, “A trunk call, Madam.  A lady called Marcia Whitby, who says she is a friend of yours from London.” 

Lucia jumped up in surprise.  The Duchess of Whitby!  She hurried to her office at the front of the house, where she picked up the telephone.  “Yes?” she said into the mouthpiece, “this is Lucia Pillson.”  She appeared calm but her mind was working furiously. 

“Lucia, this is Marcia Whitby.  I must to come down to Tilling the day after tomorrow to visit my farms in the area and I have a crate of gifts sent to you, care of myself, by Adele Brixton in America.  I know it is short notice, but I was wondering if I could stay with you.  Can you put me up for one or two nights?” 

“Why, of course, Marcia.  Delighted!  We shall talk over old times and you can catch me up on the latest news from London,” responded Lucia. 

“Thank you so much!”  Marcia tried to sound excited and, in order to hasten the end of the telephone call, omitted to mention that she had not been in London in some months.  “I shall arrive on the morning train and send your gifts and my suitcases to you from the station, but I shan’t be able to join you until teatime.  Please invite some of your friends to have dinner with us; I should love to meet them,” enthused Marcia, thinking, if more people were around, the less time she might have to spend with Lucia. 

“They’ll be thrilled, I’m sure,” said Lucia warmly.  “And my husband will cook something special in your honor.”  

“Yes, Olga Bracely said he is the man doing those marvellous cooking programmes that I listen to on BBC radio.  I look forward to seeing you!” said Marcia and rang off quickly before she lost her nerve. 

Before Lucia had moved to Tilling, she had been married for twenty-five harmonious years to Philip “Peppino” Lucas, a barrister.  During the last years of the marriage, before she had been widowed, Peppino and Lucia had lived in the village of Riseholme in the Cotswolds.  But they had spent a season in London, where Lucia had acquired a wide array of friends and enemies.  Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, fell into the latter group, for she thought Lucia to be a snob (she was) and a “joke” (she was not).  The Duchess had refused the invitations which Lucia had rained upon her and, except for one time, in a memorable moment of weakness never to be repeated, had Marcia refused to invite Lucia to her home.  But war is a great equalizer, and here was Marcia requesting the hospitality she had once so keenly sought to avoid.   Lucia did not hold grudges, especially against Duchesses.  She immediately sat down and began writing invitations to dinner to all her friends in Tilling.  For the second time, they would be dining with a Duchess at Mallards House. 

Georgie arrived home and found his wife at her desk finishing the last invitation. “Georgino mio, wonderful news!  Darling Marcia, the Duchess of Whitby, a dear friend from my season in London, is coming to stay the day after tomorrow for one or two nights.  Will you be able to cook something magnificent for her?  I’ve invited everyone to dinner.” 

Georgie considered.  His last Duchess had become enamoured of his handsome Van Dyke beard, which led to unwanted and embarrassing advances toward him by Poppy, Duchess of Sheffield; his consternation thereat had caused his beloved Olga to hoot with laughter. 

Lucia interpreted his hesitation correctly.  “Dear Olga suggested she stay with us; they’re great friends,” said Lucia, using her unhappy knowledge of Georgie’s affection for Olga to influence him. 

Georgie was equal to his wife’s jealously where Olga was concerned, and in light of Lucia’s coaxing, he rejoined, “Oh!  Of course, if she’s a friend of Olga’s, I shall be delighted!  I will be in the kitchen discussing the menu with Foljambe and Cook.”  He hurried from the room, a teasing smile breaking out on his face as he left the room.  Serve Lucia right! he thought, although he was distinctly flattered to be an object of jealousy.  But then he felt a little guilty and decided to make dinner as wonderful as he could in order to atone for his behavior.  The cook, Mrs Urquhardt, had been with them only a few weeks; she was an older Scottish lady, and though diminutive of stature, she was possessed of a fiery temper.  She found in Georgie a kindred spirit where food was concerned and in Lucia an employer worthy of her best work:  Georgie knew the meal would be magnificent.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint accepted Lucia’s invitation with a smile on her face, which turned to bile in her stomach when, upon visiting High Street, she found that the invitations were universal and all their friends would be there.   “I’m surprised she didn’t invite the curate,” Elizabeth said sourly to Diva.  But in general, expectations were high, as everyone knew that Mr Georgie had been in receipt of several crates of food from the Ministry. 

One of Elizabeth’s errands on the day before Lucia’s dinner was a return to Hopkins’ fish shop, for Withers had come back from Bexhill quite late the night before and reported that she “had a pleasant day, thank you, Madam.” 

Once again she waited until the shop was empty of customers and then approached Hopkins.  “How-de-do, Mr Hopkins.  My Withers said she had quite a pleasant afternoon in Bexhill with you yesterday.  So kind of you to take her; we have so little entertainment lately,” she said with her most synchophantish smile. 

“Indeed, Ma’am, I had quite a time myself,” he responded in kind, then stood gazing at her, thinking, Let her ask me for the sugar, I’m not going to offer the old witch anything! 

Hesitantly, Elizabeth began, “About the sugar.  I inquired last week . . . .” she trailed off. 

“Ah, yes, Ma’am.  I’ve talked to my friend at the train station, who says that sugar will be delivered by a lady coming in tomorrow on the morning train, and so I should have it for you tomorrow afternoon.”  

Elizabeth beamed.  Here, almost within her grasp, was the evidence she needed to destroy Tilling’s Black Market.  “Very well, then, Mr Hopkins, I shall expect delivery.” 

Hopkins scratched his head.  “Well, Ma’am, it doesn’t work like that.  You’ll need to bring the money to me here tomorrow after the train comes in, and to carry the sugar away with you.  I can’t have my boy delivering anything but fish, you understand.” 

“Completely,” said Elizabeth, her smile becoming a rigourous grimace.  “Then I shall call for it tomorrow afternoon.  Thank you so much!” 

She left the shop quite satisfied.  Now she had completed her initial foray and tomorrow her victory would be complete.  She could produce her story and her evidence before Inspector Morrison and the Black Market in Tilling would be utterly destroyed.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The afternoon before leaving for Tilling, Marcia had three large boxes intended for the residents of her farms transported to the train station, along with the four even larger boxes for Lucia. The crate addressed to Lucia had been opened, for it was too large for one woman to manage, and its contents repacked into four boxes. 

Very early the next morning, Marcia rode to the train station on “the contraption,” which was a tricycle with a very large metal basket welded on the back; it was used to haul packages and medical supplies from the station to Whitby Old House, or vice versa.  Hitched behind the contraption was a light-weight trailer on two wheels carrying Marcia’s luggage.  Once she achieved the station, Marcia had the contraption and its trailer loaded into the freight car of the train with her boxes.  She boarded, carrying her own suitcases, and she was soon on her way to Tilling.

© Copyright Simon Carey and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

Upon arrival at the Tilling station, Marcia went down to the freight car to oversee the unloading of her contraption and the boxes, and the loading of the farm boxes into the basket and the trailer of the contraption.  She spoke pleasantly to the porter and paid him to transport the suitcases and Lucia’s four boxes to Mallards House.  

“Make sure that Mr and Mrs Pillson know to open the boxes without waiting for me,” said Marcia.  She noticed a rather dowdy, heavy-set woman watching her suspiciously, but Marcia ignored this, thinking it was the porter calling her “Your Grace” which attracted the woman’s attention.  As Marcia rode off, Mr Williamson, the porter, was approached by another passenger, a thin, poorly-dressed female who pointed out some boxes to him which he unloaded.  The heavy-set woman, looking after Marcia, missed the furtive hand-to-hand exchange of rolled up currency notes.  The female re-boarded the train, leaving the boxes with Williamson.  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for it was she who was suspiciously watching, had taken literally Hopkins’ saying “a lady” delivered the goods.  And Elizabeth was unable to eavesdrop over the sound of the hissing train and never heard Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, being called “Your Grace.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Georgie and Lucia were home when the four boxes and the luggage arrived.  The boxes were far too large and too heavy to manouver into the garden-room, so they had the delivery men put the boxes in the sitting room off the entry hall.  The first box contained toiletries: tooth powder, simple medicines of the sort that had been found in every bathroom prior to the War, soaps for washing of clothing and body and hair, bluing for laundry, eyelash blacking and powder, and, quite marvellously, six pair of ladies’ silk stockings.  Lucia immediately offered a pair each to Foljambe and to the cook, who were surprised and pleased with the gift.

In the second box there were tins of California peaches, pears and apricots in heavy syrup, pie filling of cherry and blackberry and rhubarb, Pacific salmon and tiny smoked oysters in oil.  There were large tins of beef and pork, and a tub-full of heavily-larded salt pork.  There were grapefruit and Mandarin oranges from Florida tinned in their own juices.  “Makes my mouth water!” said Georgie, laughing.

Both Georgie and Mrs Urquhardt, the cook, let out little squeals of delight when they found tinned milk, baking powder and baking soda, and, thrillingly, twelve tins of cocoa powder for baking in the third box.  Georgie and the cook looked at each other and simultaneously exclaimed, “Chocolate cake!” then burst into peals of bright laughter.  There were also a half-dozen large bars of dark chocolate.  There were a great many restaurant-sized packages of beef and chicken bouillon, which Lucia thought excessive, but Georgie and Mrs Urquhardt knew was not. 

In a smaller box within the third box there were packets of dried eggs and of seeds for carrots, onions and beetroot, and a string of garlic whose cloves could be planted or used for food, and dried herbs and spices in little tins.  There were, carefully padded with newspaper, jars of artichoke hearts. “How wonderful!” said Lucia.  

Foljambe straightened the crumpled newspapers, the San Francisco Chronicle and the New York Times, so that they could be read, for the paper shortage had kept news uncertain of publication in England and even old news was welcome.  “News from a different, American perspective shall be quite interesting to me,” said Lucia, drawling excessively, in her best voice, as befitted the former Mayor of Tilling (thrice) and hostess of statesmen. 

The last and heaviest box contained bags of flour, of dried peas and beans, of roasted coffee beans, and “bags and bags of sugar, and pounds and pounds of tea!  India and China!” said Georgie happily. 

Georgie and Mrs Urquhardt began augmenting the existing menu for dinner, and talking of saving and using the oil from the fish and the syrup from the fruit to flavour other dishes.  Dessert was added to dinner.  Then all pitched in to move the goods down to the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~

Upon returning to Tilling from the first of her farms, Marcia rode down High Street and realized that she was lost.  She stopped in front of a fish shop and inquired as to directions to Mallards House.  “Right at the top of the hill, Ma’am, on West Street,” she was told.  She noticed the same suspicious woman from the train station watching her from a nearby corner. 

Marcia remounted the contraption and attempted to ride on, only to be stopped by a police constable in uniform.  “I’m afraid I must ask you to come with me, Ma’am,” he said. 

“And why is that?” Marcia asked. 

“There’s been a complaint made against you, a charge of trafficking in Black Market goods,” stated the young constable calmly.  

Marcia’s mouth dropped open.  “But I never—” she began. 

The young man cut her off, “If you’ll just come along with me to the station, we can sort this all out.” 

The flabbergasted Duchess protested, “This is a mistake—” 

Once again the young constable cut her off, becoming gruff, “Come along to the station,” he said.  Then more gently, “Just so we can sort this out, Ma’am.” 

And so Marcia, escorted by the uniformed constable who pushed the contraption for her, walked to Tilling Police Station.  When Marcia entered, the large woman, whom she had seen at the station and in the street, pointed at Marcia and exclaimed, “That is her!”  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had forgotten her grammar in her excitement.  “She’s the link to Williamson all the Black Marketing going on in Tilling!”  Elizabeth shrilled, with a note of triumph ringing in her proclamation. 

http://www.ryemuseum.co.uk/index.php/2008/12/the-old-police-station/

 

A man, not in uniform, laid his pipe in the tray on his desk.  “Now, now, Mrs Mapp-Flint, you’ve given your evidence.  Please leave us to finish up with this lady,” he said with calm authority.  Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but caught the stern look from the man, who said firmly, “Police business, Mrs Mapp-Flint, so I must ask you to leave.”  She shut her mouth, turned on her heel, and came as close to “flouncing out” as a woman of her age and girth could do. 

The man turned calmly to Marcia, “I’m Inspector Morrison, Ma’am,” he said.  He had already taken the measure of the accused, and saw a woman in clothing that was designer-made and well-tailored, if a few years old.  Inspector Morrison knew this was a woman of quality, “but we’ll just see how she behaves,” he thought. 

“That lady, Mrs Mapp-Flint, has filed a complaint stating that you delivered several boxes to Mr Williamson at the station, and that those boxes were full of goods meant for the Black Market,” the Inspector said, answering Marcia’s unasked question.  “But first, may I see your identification?” 

Marcia produced her driving licence, her passport, and her ration book from her purse.  The Inspector examined the documents carefully and calmly, and then returned them to Marcia, saying, “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

“This is a terrible mistake,” began Marcia, “I was delivering some packages from a friend in America to Mr and Mrs Pillson.  The boxes I took with me from the station were for my tenants at Aldcroft Farm, on the road from Tilling to Winchelsea.  Then I rode back here and your constable stopped me.  I’m to stay tonight at the Pillsons,” she paused.  “I had the porter at the station deliver four boxes to Mallards house . . . those were for the Pillsons . . .  things from America,” she faltered. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Inspector Morrison said again.  “I’ve interviewed Williamson,” he continued, “and learned that you are not involved in any of the alleged criminal actions.  If you’ll just read and sign this paper, you are free to go.” 

“Thank you,” said the Duchess with a sigh of relief. 

Inspector Morrison cleared his throat, “There is the matter of the false accusation, Your Grace, if you wish to file a complaint of your own. . . .” 

“No,” said Marcia, “I just want this sorry episode to be done.” 

“Very good, Your Grace, and most kind.”   Inspector Morrison did not display his disappointment that the Duchess of Whitby did not want to pursue charges against Elizabeth Mapp-Flint.  He stood at the window considering the kindness and responsible behavior of the lady as he watched Marcia mount the contraption and ride away.

~~~~~~~~~~

When she arrived, late, at Mallards House, she was greeted by Lucia and introduced to Georgie Pillson.  Marcia told Georgie how much she enjoyed his radio programme, especially learning new ways to cook vegetables.  Georgie blushed and thanked her.  Then she said, “I had quite an adventure getting here.  A woman told the constabulary that I was delivering goods to a Black Marketeer!  Fortunately, the Inspector cleared it all up so quickly.  But that is why I’m so late.” 

“You poor dear!” exclaimed Georgie with feeling, his eyes widening in surprised horror, “I should be quite terrified to be plucked off the street by police like that!  Just like the Black Shirts!” he stopped, wondering to himself, Is it the Black Shirts or the Brown Shirts now? Oh, well, she knows what I mean. 

“All’s well that ends well,” said Marcia.  She was escorted to the garden-room, which she admired, praising Lucia’s decorating. 

Tea was brought in, with sugar and canned milk, and Marcia at last allowed herself relax a little, “This is quite nice!” said Marcia, “it has been a long time since anyone has offered me sugar and milk with my tea!”  

Lucia apologized for not having any lemon to offer, “for I remember that you prefer it,” she said.  Marcia actually preferred milk and sugar to lemon but realized that Lucia was showing off for her husband; this was not an uncommon occurrence for the Duchess, and she had learned to let such statements pass without comment or correction.  Lucia could not complain that Marcia was not trying to be kind, and so they spoke on general subjects until Marcia had finished her tea.   

“Dear Duchess Marcia!” Lucia exclaimed, “What a terrible time you have had in our dear little Tilling!  I’m so glad my Inspector was able to clear it up swiftly.  And so sweet of you to bring all these things to us!  But you have had a long and grueling journey.  What a bicyclist you must be!” Lucia gabbled, “Let me show you your room so you can rest.  Foljambe will come and help you dress for dinner in an hour.”  Marcia began to protest that she no longer needed help from a ladies’ maid, but stopped:  it would be nice to be attended to once again, for one or two evenings. 

When Lucia had sent out her invitations to her friends in Tilling she did not mention they were to meet the Duchess of Whitby, as she had found the secrecy that had shrouded the preparations for “The Visit” had given it a glamour which she wanted to recreate.  She did inscribe “Hitum” on the card, indicating that all should wear their best evening dress.  Lucia’s husband and household had agreed to keep the Duchess’s visit a secret. 

The host and hostess greeted their guests in the sitting room, and Georgie prepared cocktails.  Mrs Diva Plaistow was first to arrive, wearing her green marocaine dress, the material for which she had purchased from the Marchè Noir and which, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint said to her husband, “makes dear Diva’s rotund form look like a gaudy bauble from a Christmas tree.”   The Padre and Evie Bartlett arrived just after Diva, dressed as neatly and as plainly as church mice should be.  The black suit and collar of the Padre saved him the expense of dinner suits and, as the vicar’s wife, Evie was expected to avoid ostentation in her dress. 

The three had just been served cocktails when the Wyses arrived.  Susan Wyse was wearing a lovely dress of blue lace, and Algernon Wyse had on his silk cummerbund and new black velveteen dinner jacket, all had been purchased via the Marchè Noir.  

Last to arrive were Major Benjy and Elizabeth Mapp-Flint.  Major Benjy was wearing the same old evening suit, now quite shiny at the elbows and in the seat from all the long years of wear.  Elizabeth was wearing a red velvet creation of her own, which she made from an old pair of curtains, but which was readily assumed by Tilling to be a product of Black Market trading. 

Lucia said hello all around.  Georgie handed Elizabeth a cocktail and Major Benjy a large whisky with a little soda in it.  Georgie noticed how shiny the elbows of the Major’s suit were. Well, he does ‘bend the elbow’ a lot, so it’s no wonder they’re almost worn through, thought Georgie, What a lush! 

Then Foljambe opened the sitting room door and announced rather loudly, “The Duchess of Whitby,” and Marcia entered, wearing a beautiful cream-coulored dress of fringed chiffon, the bias-cut showing that it was created at Maison Vionnet.  The famous Whitby pearls were clasped around her slender neck.

http://latelierdanne.unblog.fr/category/mode/

“Allow me present . . . .” began Lucia, snubbing Elizabeth and turning toward the Wyses. 

But before she could get any further, Marcia pointed to Elizabeth Mapp-Flint and exclaimed, “It was she!  She told the police that I was a Black Marketeer!  She is the reason I was dragged through the streets by that young constable!  I was treated as a common criminal!”  Marcia found this loud ejaculation to be quite unlike herself and was surprised at how incensed she had become upon seeing Elizabeth.  The stresses inherent in the enforced and heavily-laden visit to Lucia, as well as the enforced and public visit to the police station, acted upon her.  Marcia suddenly thought that seeing more of Elizabeth would render the evening intolerable; it was bad enough having to “make nice,” as her old nurse called it, with Lucia. 

At the Duchess of Whitby’s exclamation, all in the room gaped in surprise.  Mr Wyse was frozen in mid-bow.  Georgie stood stock-still, the cocktail he had made for the Duchess in his hand, unsure of how to respond.  The Padre, always the peacemaker, was struggling for words.  Then Evie Bartlett squeaked a little, breaking the spell.  

Lucia knew exactly what to say, “Dear Elizabeth!  I’m quite certain you didn’t mean to traumatize the Duchess in that manner. . . .” she prompted, expecting Elizabeth to offer an apology and rather hoping that Elizabeth would offer to leave. 

Instead, Elizabeth became shrilly defensive, “I was trying to stop the horrible, unpatriotic crime of Black Marketeering in Tilling!  Everyone in this room except me has engaged in that unhealthy and criminal practice!” exclaimed Elizabeth, not sparing the Padre.  “I saw that woman—” she pointed at Marcia “—at the train station giving boxes to that porter!  I thought she was his Link to the Underworld!” 

The Duchess suffered a sudden revolution in feeling that left her rather giddy, and she began to laugh, “’Link to the Underworld’!  Never before have I been called that!” 

Tilling society stood silent, looking at Elizabeth, whose face reddened in self-righteous fury.  Tilling took itself seriously, and the most insulting thing an outsider could do was to not take Tilling seriously.  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint thought herself to be Tilling, believing she was queen of Tilling society, never mind Lucia’s claim to the crown.  And here was this, this—Duchess!—laughing at her, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, thrice Mayoress of Tilling!  Elizabeth’s lips tightened to whiteness.  The civilized thought of apologising never entered her head.  “I did not come here to be accused and mocked!” she said severely. 

“Nor did I,” stated Marcia, who had regained firm control of herself.  She looked Elizabeth straight in the eye without wavering.  “I hadn’t been in Tilling but for a few minutes, and you accused me of criminal behavior,” she calmly stated. “You had me dragged off the street by a constable,” Marcia continued without mercy.  “I shall ask the Inspector to file a charge against you of making a false complaint,” continued the Duchess, who had no intention of doing so, “and I shall see that you are prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” 

Elizabeth gasped.  She had envisioned herself esteemed for her daring in breaking up a criminal enterprise, and here was this woman threatening Elizabeth with criminal charges of her own.  She touched Major Benjy’s arm, this time to steady herself, “Come, Benjy, we are not wanted here!”  She tried to sweep regally out of the room, but stumbled a little over the edge of Lucia’s Persian carpet, ruining the effect.  For once, Benjy did not quarrel and went quietly with his wife. 

“Foljambe,” said Georgie, “we shall be two fewer for dinner.”  Foljambe hastened to the dining room to make the necessary changes in the laying of the table. 

Marcia realized that her first impression was not what was expected of a Duchess; hence, she set about charming Tilling society.   She remembered Adele Brixton asking her, what are Duchesses for but to give pleasure to snobs?  Snobs or no, the Duchess of Whitby determined to give pleasure to all for the remainder of this evening. 

“Now, dear Georgie, is that drink for me?” asked the Duchess.  Georgie was so relieved that he did not realize till later that the Duchess of Whitby had called him by his first name in front of almost all of Tilling society.  Most gratifying. 

“Of course it is, Your Grace,” he said with a smile.  

“Oh, but you must call me ‘Duchess Marcia,’ just as darling Lucia does,” said Marcia. 

Lucia smiled and began again, “Allow me to present . . . .”

~~~~~~~~~~

A few minutes after the introductions had been made, Foljambe announced dinner.  Georgie offered his arm to Marcia and escorted her into the dining room; Lucia was escorted by Mr Wyse, the Padre escorted Susan, and Diva and Evie followed.  Marcia began her atonement by praising each of Georgie’s offerings as they appeared and wondered aloud at the substitutions he had created.  Carrot soup was first.  “Butter and cream?” Marcia asked, and Georgie said neither butter nor cream had been used in the dish. 

Over sole with a thick lemon sauce, made with “just a pinch of dried zest,” Marcia discussed with Evie Bartlett the Girl Guides and how immensely important were the skills learned therein.   Evie, who was the local Troop leader, was impressed with the Duchess’s grasp of the problems facing Girl Guides and at her suggestions of certain money-raising activities for them. 

During the main entrée of pork tenderloin with marjoram, paprika and fresh parsnips, she conversed with Mr Wyse, seated on her right, about his sister the Contessa and the current sad times for European nobility in general.

Then the Duchess and Mr Wyse praised Lucia’s dinner wines, which they agreed were wonderful vintage nectars of complex bouquet, with ethereal and layered flavours.

http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/01/05/apicius-paris/

Over dessert of rich chocolate soufflé, the Duchess talked to the table in general of Olga and of London.   It had been a long time since a dessert this rich had been served at any table in Tilling.  Georgie told everyone that it had been made with “Lady Brixton’s cocoa, which Duchess Marcia brought to us.” 

“Sumptuous!” said Diva, and after she swallowed a second bite of soufflé, “Scrumptious!” was her appraisal of the dessert; she followed that with “Superlative!” just to make sure everyone knew her opinion. 

The party moved into the garden-room, the men joining the ladies after their glass of port, which was happily abbreviated due to Major Benjy’s absence.  Lucia had planned on un po’ di musica after dinner, but the departure of the Mapp-Flints, or “the flight of Elizabeth from the Long Arm of the Law” as Evie, a reader of hardboiled detective fiction, later called it, had left six guests and two hosts at Mallards House, just enough people to make two tables for Bridge. 

“Dear Marcia, since we are eight, would you prefer to play Bridge, or to rest after you cycling exertions and trauma whilst I play some soothing musica?” asked Lucia hopefully. 

Marcia was canny in gauging the mood of a group of people and opted for Bridge, apologising for disappointing Lucia and asking if they could have “some of your delightful music” tomorrow evening instead.   

The Padre was partnered with the Duchess and they played against the team of Georgie and Diva.  Marcia continued to work her charm.  The Duchess learned of Diva’s tea-shop and commiserated with her on its closure. 

“Ach, t’was a great loss for us all, for many’s the happy tea an’ Bridge I had a’ Mistress Plaistow’s establishment,” said the Padre, who always spoke Elizabethan English mixed with Scottish, although he was from Birmingham.

The Bridge players then entered into a discussion of food served at tea, and Marcia describe some teas she had eaten while in London, and noticing the Padre’s Scottish proclivities, Marcia added a description of a delightful tea which she had been served at Stobhall in Perthshire one November before the War began.  Her descriptions of food and the ways in which it is presented added valuable information to Diva’s and Georgie’s culinary insight and fed their imaginations.  Marcia praised the originality of Diva’s sardine tartlet when that savoury was described to her, and said how much she looked forward to eating one when Ye Olde Tea-House re-opened. 

She then discussed the problems of the modern clergy and the joys of bicycling with the Padre, who used that mode of transportation on his visits to parishioners.  “Mistress Pillson started the craze, ye ken.  But it’s been mair help to me than anythin’ wi’ gettin’ ‘round ma wee parish,” said the Padre who was pleased to learn that the Duchess of Whitby was a fellow cycling enthusiast. 

“I find it so helpful for hauling supplies from the station to Whitby Old House,” said Marcia.  “But even when supplies aren’t expected, I often ride down to the station just for the pleasure of the ride.  Such freedom!” she confided to her partner and opponents.  The Padre then told the tale of Lucia’s cycling prowess, the speed of which had caused her to be fined in court. 

During the break between games, Marcia spoke to Susan Wyse and commented how extensive her support of Tilling Hospital must be in order to merit an MBE, which her husband had mentioned over dinner.  “The MBE is quite uncommon,” she said to Susan.  Doing her best to imply that she was deeply impressed, “I should think that you would display it with pride,” Marcia continued. 

Susan acknowledged that her servants frequently put the Order on display when guests were expected as “they seem so proud of it.”  Susan remembered Elizabeth Mapp’s (not yet Flint) disparaging comment that all Susan had done was place her car at the hospital’s disposal when she was not using it herself, but recognition of her work by the Duchess, as well as by the King, made up for Elizabeth’s sarcasm.

When the time came for Marcia Whitby to make small-talk with Lucia, the moment she had been dreading, she found herself amused rather than irritated by Lucia’s description of her tenure as the first female Mayor of Tilling.  Rather surprising, she thought, this woman, who was so foolish a social climber that season in London, has developed a deeper character than I ever imagined a socialite could have.

The players resumed their seats and began the second rubber.  Because the Padre was by far the best Bridge player in Tilling and “Duchess Marcia,” as she was now known to all of Tilling society (with two notable exceptions) was quite good herself, it was unsurprising that these two won quite heavily.  And Marcia scored further points by dividing her winnings, exercising the Judgement of Solomon by giving half to the Padre for “the poor of Tilling parish” and half to Evie for the Girl Guides. 

“Such generosity!  I’m sure the girls will be thrilled when I tell them,” said Evie without squeaking at all.  Already she planning to have each member of that worthy troop write a thank you note to the Duchess of Whitby.  

“Aye, your donation, ‘twill do a mort o’ good,” agreed the Padre. 

Marcia smiled, wondering to herself at how much pleasure a few of shillings can give to people. 

As the party began to break up, there was still one question burning in everyone’s mind:  Would the Duchess of Whitby file a police complaint about Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s false accusation against her?  It was Diva who finally blurted out, “Duchess Marcia, do you really intend to prosecute Elizabeth?”  Tilling held its collective breath.  While it was rather rude of Diva to ask such a question, the answer was something everyone wanted to know. 

Marcia was aware of their keen interest.  She paused as if deliberating, then said, “I think not.  I’m sure she has had more than enough time to be sorry for her rashness and has likely learned her lesson.” 

Diva was not the only person in the room who thought, I think not; not like Elizabeth to learn her lesson at all.  But no one contradicted the Duchess aloud.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, there was a great deal of talk to be done in Tilling about the events of yesterday.  Diva, having risen early, saw Duchess Marcia riding through Tilling on her contraption, headed toward Peasmarsh Farm, and she saw Lucia walking briskly to the police station, and she wanted to tell everyone so.  Of course, the main topic of conversation was the contrast between Elizabeth’s behavior and that of the Duchess.  The general opinion of Tilling was that Duchess Marcia’s initial exclamation and accusation had been atoned for completely and was therefore best forgotten.   

At breakfast, Mr Wyse said to his spouse of Elizabeth that “this is not the kind of behavior we expect in our Tilling.” 

“Yes, she wanted to cut off all her friends from the little items we need and can only obtain through the Marchè Noir.  So mean of Elizabeth.  And so charming of the Duchess to take an interest in your connection to the Contessa di Faraglioni,” replied Susan. 

“And she was most impressed by you order.  Susan Wyse, M. B. E.” responded her spouse. 

The Bartletts in the Vicarage discussed the events, the food, and the fashions.  Evie sighed over “Duchess Marcia’s beautiful dress," and her husband determined to purchase dress material for his “wee wifey” as soon as possible; he must ask Diva where she got the material for that pretty green frock she wore last night.  The Padre reflected that sometimes he forgot that Evie was a woman, as he took her for granted as a wife and helpmeet.  And the Bartletts, too, were censorious about Elizabeth’s behavior. 

“It was scandalous; she committed an act that, while possibly with merit, was done out of malice toward for her friends,” said Evie. 

“Ach, weil, ‘tis a hard thing, being Mistress Mapp-Flint,” said her husband, remembering he was a priest and should be forgiving and forbearing.  And remembering the other cheek, he added, “and ‘tis a harder thing still to be her husband.” 

During shopping hour, Diva and Evie and Susan gathered in the queue at Twemlow’s, the grocer’s. 

“So foolish of Elizabeth,” began Diva. 

“But so characteristic of her,” continued Susan. 

“To botch the job like that,” finished Evie.  The vicar’s wife had lately developed a passion for reading cheap American detective magazines and novels, and these stories had influenced her speech; a large number of these paperback fictions had been donated to the Church for its jumble sale, and Evie was devouring them as fast as she could so as to be done with them before the sale.  “Criminal, that’s what it is.  And so kind of the Duchess not to have her thrown in the slammer,” continued Evie. 

“And Elizabeth so utterly rude,” continued Susan, “Even Algernon had strong words about her behavior.” 

“Just like Elizabeth,” finished Diva.  All three nodded as one.  The discussion then came around to “Duchess Marcia” and was quite favourable. 

“So charming of the Duchess to take such notice of us all,” began Evie. 

“She was ever so interested in my tea-house; when I told her of the signboard Irene had painted for me, she thought it most clever and amusing,” continued Diva. 

“A woman of fine perception and great kindness.  Not to mention generous,” finished Susan. 

Then, on the subject of dress:  “Such a beautiful gown,” began Diva, “cream-colored chiffon.  And fringe!” 

“The cut and quality positively shouted hautè couture,” continued Susan. 

Evie just sighed.  It was sometimes so difficult to be the church mouse.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Absent from the morning shopping were the Mapp-Flints.  Elizabeth had spent a sleepless night, her feelings alternating between indignation and dread.  Major Benjy, who had been denied a “jolly good dinner with a Duchess,” was grumpy and unsympathetic.  At breakfast, Elizabeth tried sobbing a little, which only made her husband suggest a glass of water for her hiccups. 

“I don’t need a glass of water.  I need to know what that woman is planning to do to me!” said an anxious Elizabeth.  “Benjy, you must go down to the police station after shopping hour is over and see if that woman has made a complaint.  I cannot rest easy until I know, and I certainly will not set foot in Tilling without knowing what awaits me there.” 

So, later that the morning, Major Benjy put on his hat and walked into town.  He called at the police station and spoke with Inspector Morrison. 

“I understand my wife has been giving you a bit of trouble lately,” said Benjy, “I hope she didn’t create too much havoc?” 

“Your wife engaged in criminal activity in the misguided belief that she could bring down the Black Market single-handedly.  It never occurred to her that she, herself, became a criminal in doing so,” said Inspector Morrison severely.  “She’s very lucky that the lady whom she accused has declined to file a complaint against her.  You wife would be better off if she refrained from trying to do police work in the future.” 

“Thank you, Inspector.  Very grateful.  Will talk to Mrs Mapp-Flint about it.  Thank you,” and with that Benjy returned to Grebe with the good news.  He also relayed Inspector Morrison’s other remarks as well, which left Elizabeth a little docile.  She did have the presence of mind to thank her husband, “you always look after me, Benjy.”  She then left her husband to “have a little snooze” before luncheon.  He had a large drink from his flask, full of Black Market liquor, before he began his little snooze. 

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint now had more planning to do.  How could she get out of this?  Her noble plan to save Tilling from itself had backfired and made her virtuous purpose appear simply spiteful.  She knew Tilling would be against her, she knew that she was being reviled in the shopping queue.  She must be genial and kind to all.  She would have to sacrifice some of her tea and sugar on the altar of society.  At least Inspector Morrison had not confiscated the sugar she had bought from Hopkins; much of this year’s plum and strawberry jam must be offered up to Tilling, while the marrow she would have to keep for herself.  As aggravating as it was, there was no other way.  She would begin her campaign to win back her friends as soon as the Duchess had left the vicinity.  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was down, but she would never concede defeat.

~~~~~~~~~~

Also absent from the morning rounds were the Pillsons, whose need to stand in queues had been abated for a time by the delivery of Lady Brixton’s wonderful gift.  Instead they stood in the kitchen with all the tins and bags and jars laid out on the kitchen table and counters.  Foljambe and the cook stood on either side of the kitchen table, like soldiers on guard duty. 

“What did Inspector Morrison say?” Georgie asked. 

“He said that Elizabeth spent a great deal of money on sugar from the Marchè Noir, purportedly to make jam with, and then reported that she had done so to police, never realizing that she had incriminated herself in the crime,” said Lucia. 

“And what about Hopkins and the others?” Georgie asked. 

“Hopkins agreed to tell what he knows about Williamson.  Kelley from the Globe will not be charged—all the liquor in the pub had the appropriate tax stamps, and any liquor he might have received from Williamson he had donated to the Home Guard for their ‘dinners,’ and all the evidence has been consumed.  Williamson was caught with goods and ration tickets on his person and in his home.  He will stand trial; my Inspector says he had a ‘stranglehold’ on the local Market, and other witnesses, more credible than poor, bungling Elizabeth, have come forward.” 

“All’s well that ends well,” said Georgie, echoing Duchess Marcia.  

“We must put together little gift baskets for all our dear friends,” said Lucia, looking over the bounty. 

“Even Elizabeth?” asked Georgie. 

Lucia smiled, “Especially Elizabeth.” 

“Now, we must decide what to give to whom, although I must say I don’t think Elizabeth deserves a thing.  She probably has a huge hoard of goods hidden away,” said Georgie, who was closer to the truth than he realized. 

“Let us give them all a basket, Diva and the Bartletts and the Wyses and the Mapp-Flints:  peaches, pears, baking powder, cocoa if you can part with it,” said Lucia. 

“And salmon and oysters.  But I’m keeping the artichoke hearts and apricots for special recipes I’m working on.  They can all come in and eat the results,” said Georgie.  “And tooth powder and soap.”

“Begging your pardon, Sir, Madam, perhaps you could give some of the bluing to the laundress; she said some months ago that she had none and was having difficulty keeping your clothing as white as her standards called for,” suggested Foljambe.    Georgie and Lucia agreed that this was an excellent idea. 

“And tea and coffee and tinned milk for our friends.” Georgie suddenly burst out, “I’m so tired of serving it weak and without any sugar or milk!” 

“And we must give dear Elizabeth some more sugar so she can make her delicious plum jam that did so much, so she wrongly said, to enhance the already perfect flavour of your oatcakes. . . .” said Lucia. 

Georgie paused.  “She should have the decency to send it all back to us, as she did with the tomatoes our first summer here,” he said. 

“But she won’t, Georgie, she won’t,” finished Lucia.

THE END

Note: most of the images used were taken from image searches, and I apologize if I unknowingly infringed on anyone’s copyright by using them.  

Text copyright 2011 Kathleen Bradford