By Kathleen Bradford, based upon characters created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt, Guy Fraser-Sampson and Deryck Solomon. This story takes place after just after Lucia Triumphant.
Lucia Pillson, Mayor of Tilling, stood in the entry hall at her home, Mallards House, with Tilling’s Town Surveyor, Percy, and the Foreman of the Gasworks, Percy’s brother Georgie.
“Of course I can spare you ten minutes, gentlemen; please come into my office.” The three entered the small room off the hall at the front of the house which served as Lucia’s office. “Please be seated,” she said.
“Thank you, Ma’am, but we’d prefer to stand,” said Percy nervously. The two brothers, who were usually full of jokes and laughter, presented grave faces.
“Certainly. How can I be of assistance? Something wrong in the Football or the Cricket Club?” Lucia was President of the Tilling Football and Cricket Clubs, elected after donating a heavy roller for the playing field and subsequently donating jerseys in the Tilling colours to the members of the football team and white flannels to the members of the cricket team. She was currently considering the purchase of state-of-the-art cricket bats for “my cricket players.”
“No, Ma’am,” said Georgie. “It’s much more important than that.”
“You see, Ma’am, we’re members of the Tilling Historical Society,” said Percy. “Mrs Brace, the doctor’s mother, was President but is stepping down. We have to elect a new president.”
Lucia assumed that the brothers were here to offer her the presidency. “As much as I would like to join the Historical Society, I would have to consider it carefully. There are many demands on my time: as Mayor, as President of the Football and Cricket Clubs, and I sit on the Parish Council, and the hospital’s Board of Directors and that of the Workhouse. But my interest in the history and archaeology of Tilling is deep and profound, so if you really need my help. . . .” she trailed off.
“Oh, Ma’am! We don’t like to ask. It’s just that we have something of a crisis: your fellow Councillor, Mrs Mapp-Flint, recently joined the Historical Society and is putting herself forward to become next president,” Georgie paused.
Percy, who had worked with Mrs Pillson for quite some time and was more comfortable talking to her than was his brother, was more forthcoming. “It would be a disaster! Already she’s begun trying to use the Society politically. You remember at last council meeting, she didn’t want the new drains put in because it would destroy our historical cobbled streets?”
Lucia nodded, “I do remember.”
“Mrs Mapp-Flint was against the new drains from the first, complaining about the rates but . . .” Percy paused and his brother Georgie shifted his cap nervously in his hands.
“Yes? Please, speak frankly,” urged Lucia.
“Well, Ma’am, ever since she found out that your gift is funding the new drains, she’s been trying even harder than usual to stop progress,” continued Percy.
“She even offered Mayor Twistevant a cut rate on the fruits and vegetables that she sells him for his shop, if he would support her,” put in Georgie of the Gasworks.
That explains why Twistevant and Elizabeth have been supporting one another’s agendas at Council meetings, thought Lucia.
“And Twistevant seems all for it, too!” cried an upset and angry Percy. “Now she wants to use the Historical Society to stop the drains, beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am. Wants to have people down from London or Oxford to do a study and intends to put it forward at the next Council meeting.”
“I am sure the Council will vote with us in favour of the new drains,” said Lucia. “All of the tradesmen want improved sanitation, and they know that they probably will never get a better offer to modernize that I am offering them.” Lucia was donating one third of the funds for the new drains, and humility was not Lucia’s way, especially in times of crisis. “And even if Mr Twistevant votes with Mrs Mapp-Flint against new drains so he can get cut-price fruit and vegetables, he knows that the other councillors will vote for them and over-ride his vote.”
“We’re not so worried about the Council, Ma’am,” said Georgie, “we know you can handle them.” Percy nodded in agreement. “It’s the Historical Society. We were hoping you’d join and we could put you forward as president instead of Mrs Mapp-Flint.” He stopped. Both brothers stood for a moment, still nervously shifting their caps around in their hands.
Lucia considered. She was disappointed to realize that she would have to run against Elizabeth for the Presidency, instead of being co-opted for the Presidency, as she had been initially for Town Councillor. On the other hand, the idea of defeating Elizabeth was certainly attractive.
“Please, Ma’am!” Percy burst out plaintively, “You’re the only one who can stop her from ruining the Historical Society!”
Georgie grinned at his brother, “Not to mention that the new drainage system is dear to Percy’s heart.” His familiar teasing eased the intensity of his brother’s reaction to the machinations of Mrs Mapp-Flint, who had been appointed Mayoress by Lucia and had won her council seat because of that appointment.
“I don’t deny that, Ma’am. With your funding,” Percy said, “and your help in planning the drains,” he added diplomatically, although Mrs Pillson had nothing to do with the real planning, “We can leave a lasting mark on Tilling. I want go down in Tilling history as the man who saved the drains,” Percy continued fervently, “Just like the surveyors who saved London after the Great Stink of 1858.” There was a pause as Percy recovered himself from his dream of glory in the drains of Tilling and then apologized.
“No, do not apologize,” said Lucia, raising a hand. “It is a noble dream and I am happy to help you to realize it.” She looked earnestly at the brothers, who looked hopefully back at her.
“How you all work me!” she said with a smile. “And how do I go about becoming a member of the Tilling Historical Society?”
Delighted, the brothers smiled back at their benefactress.
A few minutes later, Lucia showed the men to the door herself, promising that she and her husband would attend the meeting of the Historical Society the following evening.
She went into the garden-room where her husband, also called Georgie, was just starting his tea.
“There are muffins,” he announced, pouring out a cup of tea for Lucia. “What did Gas and Drains want?” he asked facetiously.
“They asked to put us up for membership in the Tilling Historical Society. I told them we’d be happy to join.”
“No! Really? Will we do more fêtes and tableaux and dress up as historical characters?” asked Georgie in a rush of words. He liked to dress in the height of fashion, whatever the era, and was eager to begin planning costumes; he loved doing needlework but had become tired of petit- and gros-point and endless embroidery. Costuming himself, Lucia, and their friends would be a welcome diversion.
“We will go to the meeting tomorrow evening and see if they vote us in—not a problem with that, say ‘Gas and Drains,’” replied Lucia.
“Good,” said Georgie. He realized that the Historical Society would give him a chance to do something for Tilling; being simply the husband of the first female Mayor of Tilling was not enough. I’ll have to find out what they want; funds, of course, but what else? Perhaps there’s a niche for me and I can step out of Lucia’s shadow.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Tilling Historical Society met at the Institute, as the Ypres Tower, its main attraction, was unheated and cold this time of year. The Pillsons were duly voted in as members of the Tilling Historical Society. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, while unhappy about it, smiled and sweetly voted “Yea” only because everyone else had done so.
“However, there is the matter of the donation,” she reminded the members, without bothering to be recognized by the President.
“We will be happy to help fund whatever ideas you have,” said Lucia quickly, and Georgie nodded.
“It is not that simple, Lulu dear,” said Elizabeth still smiling saccharine at Lucia, her detested rival for queen of Tilling society; she used “Lulu” knowing how much Lucia disliked being called by that hideous abbreviation.
Mrs Brace explained: the Society members were gathering display items for the Ypres Tower and Museum, and over the past several years each new member donated an item, or items, of historical interest. “Tourists come in charabancs to see that sort of thing,” Mrs Brace said, “So you are now probationary members; full membership is contingent upon each of you donating a suitable item.”
After the business of the meeting was over, the full members and the two probationary members gathered for tea, Lucia asked, “Tell me, dear Elizabeth, what was your donation?”
“Yes, please give us some idea of what the Society is looking for,” added Georgie Pillson tactfully.
“Major Benjy donated an antique sword for the armoury display, and I donated Tilling Pottery Pigs,” replied Elizabeth.
“Of course! We should have guessed. How generous of you to sacrifice your collection for Tilling!” said Lucia effusively.
Elizabeth smiled and thanked her, omitting to add that she had not donated her entire collection of pottery pigs; she had only donated three pigs that were duplicates to those already in her collection, and the donated pigs had been glued together after Major Benjy knocked them on the floor. Her own “rainbow of quaint little piggies” was safe on a shelf in the dining room at Grebe, her house outside of Tilling on the marshes.
“But remember, the items must be of historical significance to Tilling,” admonished Elizabeth.
“And where is Major Benjy tonight?” asked Lucia.
“He had a touch of biliousness; I positively insisted that my Benjy-boy stay at Grebe until he felt better.”
“Do tell him that we asked after him and we hope he feels better soon,” said Georgie.
“Thank you, I shall,” said Elizabeth, and once again sinning by omission, she failed to add that the biliousness was almost certainly caused by an over-indulgence in the Golf Club’s whisky.
As they walked home, Lucia and Georgie discussed possible donations. Broken clay pipes excavated from the garden at Mallards House suggested Lucia. Georgie reminded her that they had reburied all the things (he wisely refrained from calling them “rubbish,” which in fact they were) that they had dug up. And those things had definitely proved to be less than antique after all.
Broken pieces of Samian ware, she then suggested. Georgie reminded her that the Samian ware had been recovered from a field near Riseholme, the village in the Cotswolds in which Lucia and Georgie had lived prior to moving to Tilling, and were not part of the rubbish they dug up and re-buried at Mallards House.
Lucia silently wished that Georgie’s memory was not quite so good and that his honesty was not quite so interfering.
"Some of your bibelots," she suggested.
Georgie stopped in the middle of the historically-cobbled street. “No!” he exclaimed. “I’m not giving up my bibelots! We’ll have to find something else.”
“Very well, caro,” said Lucia soothingly. “But remember, we do not have much time. We must save the Tilling Historical Society from Elizabeth Mapp-Flint!”
~~~~~~~~~~
Breakfast at Grebe was not fun for Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint. As a bachelor, he often had to suffer burnt porridge, but burnt porridge was nothing when compared to facing his wife when she was in a “mood”—and she was always in one mood or another. Major Benjy tried to hide behind the newspaper, but his wife would not quit talking, which demanded some response on his part.
“. . . and the effrontery of that woman! She found out that I had joined the Historical Society and has to push herself in, just to copy me.” Elizabeth bit into a piece of toast, chewed ferociously, and swallowed. “As usual, she is trying to buy her membership. Luckily I put a stop to that.”
“How’s that, Girlie?” replied Major Benjy vaguely, more interested in the sporting news than his wife’s latest tempest in a teacup.
“Each of the Pillsons must donate an item of historical significance to Tilling instead of giving money.” She crashed her way through another piece of toast, pausing to notice that her quince jelly tasted quite good, just the right balance of sweet and tart.
“You’ll beat her this time!” said the Major encouragingly, while still reading the racing results: at last! His bookmaker would owe him a little money this week. Perhaps he could pay a little in on his bill at the wine merchant’s.
“They do not have much time. Elections for the President of the Historical Society will be in four weeks; I am certain to win if Lucia does not get in the way.”
“Of course you’ll win,” said the Major. He swallowed his tea at a gulp. “Off to golf!” He shouldered his bag and walked off to the golf course, leaving his wife to fret alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was at luncheon ten days later that Lucia asked Georgie if he had found anything historical that would gain them full membership in the Society.
“Nothing. It’s too tarsome. Foljambe and I have been through every wardrobe and cupboard. Neither I nor any of our staff can think of anything appropriate. I’ve combed through every shop in Tilling and found nothing. I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” said Georgie dejectedly.
“And I am sure that you will think of something,” responded his wife. “Perhaps while I am at Town Hall you will have one of your marvellous ideas.”
Georgie sighed quietly. Just like Lucia, leaving me to do the work, he thought.
After Lucia had left, Georgie’s trusted maid Foljambe came into his oak-panelled sitting room where he sat sewing. "Pardon me, Sir, but Cadman would like a word,” she said. Cadman was Lucia’s chauffeur and also Foljambe’s husband. Georgie could never adjust to calling his maid “Cadman” and so she had kept her maiden name for work.
“Yes, Cadman?”
“Excuse me, Sir, but it’s been ever so long since you took the Rolls out, what with you and Mrs Pillson riding your bicycles or walking everywhere. I hoped a road trip might help you find the historical items you need, Sir,” said the chauffeur. “Just like a game of Scavenger Hunt.”
This re-ignited Georgie’s interest in finding suitable items. He laid aside his embroidery. “I never thought of it like that! I haven’t played Scavenger Hunt since I was a boy. But where would we hunt?”
“Well, Sir, I noticed some little antique and gift shops in Hastings; I was going to suggest them when you were in need of a new . . .bibelot? Is that the right word, Sir?”
“Exactly the right word, Cadman.”
“And if Hastings won’t serve, then there’s always Folkestone or even Brighton, and places in between,” continued Cadman. “And the Rolls does need to be taken out every so often, Sir; it’s bad for the engine to let it sit too long.”
“Excellent idea! A Scavenger Hunt! We’ll start tomorrow. Foljambe can come with us and we’ll make a party of it. Tomorrow, first thing after breakfast,” decided Georgie.
“Very good, Sir.”
Georgie realized that Cadman, probably at Foljambe’s urging, had just offered a solution to his problem. “And, Cadman. . . .”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Thank you,” said Georgie with sincerity.
“My pleasure, Sir,” Cadman said and he left the room.
A Scavenger Hunt! thought Georgie. It should be okay since Hermy and Ursy aren’t here. Hermoine and Ursula were Georgie’s strapping sisters, who were as mannish in their behaviour as Georgie was feminine. The last time Georgie had gone on a Scavenger Hunt was when he was a small boy, and he was forced by his sisters to scavenge “Mam’selle’s underpants” from the governess’s wardrobe. As a “lark,” his sisters then told Mam’selle that they had seen him entering her room; his discovery with underpants in hand had led to hysterics from both Mam’selle and Georgie. The incident had left him scarred for life. His sisters had been punished, and the words “Scavenger Hunt” were never uttered again. But now his sisters were either shooting or playing golf or hunting otters in Scotland, and the list of what was to be scavenged was narrow, if vague, so there was no risk of underclothing or emotional trauma being involved.
Lucia returned from Town Hall, where there was no business to detain her but still she had remained there for an hour in case work should suddenly arise.
Georgie said firmly, “Lucia. Tomorrow we’re going on a Scavenger Hunt. We’re leaving right after breakfast. Hastings, and anywhere else that we might find historical things.”
“I do not think I should leave Tilling, so many things to do—”
“Nonsense. You can skip any meetings you might have. A change of air, and I know we shall find the perfect items, one for me and one for you, to give to the Historical Society. I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer: we’re going!”
Lucia gave her silvery laugh, “Caro! It shall be as you say, a Scavenger Hunt.” Thus were the words “Scavenger Hunt” cleansed of any negative emotional associations in Georgie’s mind, so long as Hermy and Ursy were not present.
Georgie wanted to take credit for the idea, but being a gentleman, he could not do so. “Cadman’s idea; he says that the Rolls needs to be taken out or the engine will plug up, or something; I never realized that automobiles need to be exercised, like horses. And Cadman knows were there are some shops in Hastings that may have what we need.”
“An excellent plan, Georgie. Should I pack a case?”
“No. Just a day trip. We’ll leave early. If we don’t find what we want, I’ll go to Folkestone tomorrow and scour the country-side for something appropriate. I want to give the Ypres Tower something better to display than pottery pigs,” said Georgie spiritedly, “but we’re running out of time.”
“That reminds me. Percy, my Town Surveyor, corrected a false impression that Elizabeth gave us: she donated only three pigs, all with chips and cracks in them; not the whole collection at all.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. She probably glued them back together after Benjy stumbled and broke them. She always cheats,” observed Georgie, who was closer to the truth than he knew. “But I’m determined she shan’t win this time.”
~~~~~~~~~~
And so it was in the highest of spirits that the party from Mallards House set out the next morning, despite the cold winter weather. Foljambe thoughtfully put rugs, and hot water bottles, and two large thermos bottles of hot tea, and a small bottle of brandy in the Rolls Royce.
To help keep warm, Georgie wore a fur cape of sheared Canadian beaver over his coat. Lucia touched the fur gently. “Is that a new cape? How lovely! Mrs Wyse will be jealous.” She referred to their friend Susan Wyse, who wore her sables even in the hottest days of summer.
“Perhaps. But my little cape will seem a paltry thing beside her great sable coat and muff.” Georgie omitted to say that the cape had been a gift from his friend Olga Bracely, the Prima Donna.
“Your fur is so much nicer, softer, than her sables,” said Lucia, knowing that Georgie loved a compliment.
“I think so, too,” said Georgie as they drove off, the engine of the Rolls purring happily.
The marshes outside Tilling were in their winter colours, and a lapwing flashed by, it's feathers white and iridescent green against the grey sky. Georgie pointed out that he had little experience in painting winter scenes and said he should try doing so, except that it was uncomfortable to sit out in the cold. His wife agreed. There was a lull in the conversation; Lucia and Georgie gazed out the windows as the Rolls moved smoothly along the tarmac.
Suddenly, Lucia said, “Georgie, there’s something I must tell you. It’s about Elizabeth Mapp-Flint; her actions have left me with a moral dilemma.”
Instantly interested, Georgie said, “Please do tell.”
“I’ve learned that Elizabeth has given Twistevant a lower price on the produce she supplies to his shop as long as he supports her in trying to keep my drains from going in. A bribe, Georgie!” said Lucia.
“I have no trouble believing that. Though it’s foolish of Twistevant, isn’t it?”
“Very foolish, Georgie. Why, if anyone had proof that he accepted a bribe, he could be removed, in disgrace, from the office of Councillor.”
Georgie suddenly realized what Lucia was thinking: if Twistevant was removed from office, Elizabeth would lose her only supporter in her foolish fight against Lucia's drains. And if Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was forced off the Council, so much the better for Lucia. Georgie knew to tread cautiously. “And do you have proof?” he asked.
“Just hearsay.”
“Well, I’m no expert, but I doubt you’ll be able to get him to step down based upon gossip,” said Georgie. “If confronted, he and Elizabeth will both deny it completely. And I’m sure Mr Twistevant has his own supporters on the Town Council, even if Elizabeth doesn’t.”
Lucia began in her most Mayoral voice, “But when I see my duty—“
Georgie interrupted. “No, Lucia. Even if it is gossip,” Georgie stuck to that word, ignoring Lucia’s use of the word hearsay, “This is public and political. You must rise above such petty things as cut-price cauliflower. You could end up with mud on your face if you fight Elizabeth in her own garden.”
Lucia knew that she did not have enough evidence to act upon. “As you say, Caro. I shall take your advice, sound as a man’s advice always is,” she said as the Rolls purred its way into St-Leonards-on-Sea, just west of Hastings. “I shall bide my time,” she added quietly. She knew that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint would one day slip up, and that she, Lucia, would be there to see it.
Cadman pulled up in front of a shop on Norman Road. He helped Lucia and Georgie out of the Rolls. They looked up and down, noting that there were several antique and curio shops on the street.
“Cadman, you have chosen well. Please find someplace nearby to park the car; I shan’t want you following us up and down the street like the Wyses do in Tilling. We shall meet you at that tea shop,” Lucia pointed down the street to a sign for Clement’s Tea Shop, “in two hours.” Once again Lucia had referred to Susan Wyse, who had her chauffeur drive her in her Rolls Royce to do the shopping each morning in Tilling’s High Street, stopping at each shop in turn.
Cadman touched the bill of his cap. “Very good, Madam,” he said.
And Lucia and Georgie began their Scavenger Hunt.
Two hours later, empty-handed, they entered Clement’s Tea Shop and ordered tea and cakes. After drinking their hot tea on this cold day, the party from Mallards House returned to the Rolls Royce.
“We saw several possible items, but there was nothing that really stood out,” said Georgie to Foljambe. “I want something that will really impress, a public bibelot.” Georgie was a fervent over his public bibelot as was Percy over his public drains.
I wonder, mused Lucia silently, if the other Georgie is as fervent over his gasworks?
“Where to now, Cadman? Into Hastings?” asked Lucia
“Yes, Madam. There are more antique shops there. But, beggin’ your pardon, there’s one shop by the Fisherman’s Museum in Hastings Old Town that I think you should see.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hastings Old Town,” said Georgie, who paid a monthly visit to Hastings to see his barber in order to procure the dye for his auburn hair. The fact that Mr Georgie dyed his hair and wore a toupee was an open secret in Tilling, and therefore safe from the world and never spoken of in his presence.
“Actually, Sir, it’s in a rather rough part of town. You should know that before you agree to go there. But I think it will be a worthwhile visit.”
Lucia and Georgie looked at each other, weighing the need for an outstanding antique against possibly hearing rough language or being accosted in the street.
“I think we should try it,” said Lucia, who was not afraid of anything and who knew how much it meant to Georgie to find the perfect item to donate.
“If I might make a suggestion, Madam,” said Cadman.
“Of course.”
“If you don’t mind walking, Madam, Sir, there is a car park several blocks away from the shop, in a better part of town. We could park the car there and Doris—Foljambe—and I can accompany you on foot,” offered Cadman.
Georgie was still uncertain; someone “rough” was bound to say something nasty about his cape.
Foljambe looked at her employer. “Safety in numbers, Sir,” she said brightly.
Reassured, Georgie nodded. “Yes, Cadman, we’ll do exactly as you say.”
A few minutes later, Lucia and Georgie followed Cadman and preceded Foljambe down a street in a distinctly dingy part of Hastings. A few people stared, and a grubby child of indeterminate gender pointed at Georgie in his cape or, perhaps, at Cadman in his chauffeur’s uniform.
“Tarsome child,” murmured Georgie.
“He should be in school, should he not?” Lucia asked, but got no reply.
The Pillsons were relieved when Cadman held open a shop door for them to enter. Lucia and Georgie went in, and Cadman and Foljambe waited just inside the door, out of the cold.
Georgie looked around. A stout elderly woman emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop. She was rough-looking but her clothing was clean and neat, if old, and her shop was cleaner than Lucia and Georgie had expected it to be.
“Help you folks?” she asked.
Lucia answered, “We’re looking for collectibles to display in our museum in Tilling.”
“Have a look ‘round then,” the proprietoress said and shuffled off to busy herself sorting through a quantity of fishing lures while Foljambe engaged her in conversation. Cadman waited watchfully just inside the door.
The somewhat inadequate lighting reflected from several large, iridescent glass balls on a table. Georgie looked them over. “What are these?” he called out.
“Fishing net floats. Glass. Pretty, aren’t they,” the woman replied.
“They are pretty,” said Georgie as the woman left her hooks and walked toward them. “I don’t suppose any relate to Tilling?”
“Just that large one, Sir, the kinda gold one,” she indicated one of the larger floats, “made in Tilling. There was a small shop there as used to make them, years ago, when my grandmother was a girl. Gone now, for years and years, that shop.”
“There must be many of these floats about, so close to Tilling,” said Lucia.
“Never seen another, and I’ve been working the second-hand shop here ‘most all my life,” said the woman.
Lucia said, “We may be interested, but we need to look around some more.”
“Lucia!” Georgie gasped; he had moved further away, toward the back of the shop. He was looking at a strange metal object, slightly rusted. “What is this? It looks like a lantern, but not quite.”
“That’s an old smuggler’s lamp,” said the woman. “For them as worked owling.”
Georgie and Lucia looked confused, and the woman barked a laugh. “Owling. An old name for the smuggling trade.”
Georgie and Lucia smiled, and Lucia stored the word away in her mind for future use.
“How does the lamp work?” asked Georgie.
“Put a candle in it. A smuggling man held it, and put his hand over the end of the spout. He could cover and uncover the light to signal the smuggling ships; they could see the signal, even far out to sea.”
“Perfect!” said Georgie. “I’ll take it!” To his great relief, he had found the very antique, Tilling-related, historical item he wanted.
The woman named her price for the smuggler’s lamp and for the Tilling glass float. Georgie, who would have paid almost anything for the lamp, was happy to find that both items were unexpectedly inexpensive.
Lucia was looking a glass case in which was an array of knives and two swords. The woman noticed her looking.
“Keep ‘em locked up, so no one gets any funny ideas,” she said.
“This sword looks quite old. Could it have belonged to a smuggler?” asked Lucia.
“Old, yes. Dunno how old, though, Ma’am. Dunno who it belonged to, either,” said the woman.
“Just a hunch. But I’ll take the sword, too,” said Lucia.
The woman wrapped up the items in brown paper, and Georgie took charge of the smuggler’s lamp, Foljambe, of the float, and Lucia, of the sword.
“Let me carry that for you, Madam,” said Cadman.
Lucia replied, “No, Cadman, I can carry it.” Remembering that they had to pass once again through a rough part of town, “Just in case we have to fight our way back to the Rolls,” she joked. She wanted Cadman unencumbered in case some ne’er-do-well accosted them in the street. Georgie’s beautiful cape was conspicuous in this part of Hastings.
“Very good, Madam,” Cadman replied.
After regaining the Rolls Royce without incident, the party from Mallards House retired to the dining room of one of the better hotels for a late luncheon, their purchases safely hidden in the boot.
“What an adventure!” said Georgie. “We must tell them that we braved the squalid underbelly of Hastings to get a real smuggler’s lamp!”
“Elizabeth will be furious. These things are so much nicer than her pigs,” said Lucia.
Georgie giggled at the image of a furious Elizabeth, or perhaps the bubbles from the celebratory half-bottle of champagne that Lucia had ordered tickled him. “I can see her now! Her face will be all pinched in, then she’ll smile her widest and say what a nice lamp it is, but isn’t it a little rusty.”
At their own table nearby, Foljambe and Cadman congratulated each other for the successful outing. Mr Pillson had ordered a half-bottle of champagne for them, so pleased was he with his smuggler’s lamp.
“Mr Pillson is happier than I’ve seen him in weeks,” said Foljambe. “I hope they won’t be upset if they ever find out that the woman who owns that shop is your Auntie.”
Cadman grinned.
~~~~~~~~~~
At the next meeting of the Tilling Historical Society, Georgie and Lucia presented the lamp and the float. The lamp was, of course, a huge success. And the float aroused interest, as Georgie of the Gasworks, after being properly recognized by Mrs Brace, recalled that his granddad’s dad had worked briefly at the glass factory in Tilling, just before it closed. “Rare, these are,” he said. “They only made a couple of batches of them, made them from our very own Tilling sand and for our very own Tilling fishing boats. This float and Mr Pillson’s lamp will make our Ypres Tower display stand out!”
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was recognized and praised the donations from her friends the Pillsons. “. . . and that smuggler’s lamp is wonderful,” she said, smiling ferociously, “if a little rusty.”
Georgie glanced at Lucia, and both suppressed smiles. The elevation of the Pillsons to full members was unanimous; Elizabeth voted “Yea” in her most cooing voice and gave her friends a sweet smile.
After the meeting adjourned, the group had tea and biscuits. Percy and his brother Georgie approached Lucia and her husband Georgie.
“Election's in two weeks,” said Percy quietly, for fear of being overheard by Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. “I’m grateful to you for letting us nominate you.”
“I have a duty to Tilling and must shoulder the burden resolutely,” said Lucia. “How you all work me!” she laughed.
“Spiffing lantern, that,” said Georgie of the Gasworks, after rapidly swallowing a biscuit. “But a little rusty,” he mimicked Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, but not quite as accurately as Quaint Irene Coles was able to do. “Marvellous, rust or no rust!” Georgie Pillson thanked him.
Percy said, “I haven’t thought about the glassworks in, well, I don’t know how long. Never thought to see one of those floats again. Maybe our great-granddad helped make it!”
“Here she comes!” warned Percy’s brother, and they stepped back to make room for Elizabeth.
“How delightful to have you join us!” she said as she kissed the air next to Lucia’s cheek and then shook Mr Georgie’s hand. She did not offer her hand to Georgie of the Gasworks nor to Percy of the Drains.
“And we are delighted to be here,” said Lucia. “But where is Major Benjy tonight? Has he lost interest in history?”
“Strained a muscle playing golf,” said Elizabeth with alacrity.
More likely staying in so he can drink without Elizabeth’s interference, thought Georgie, as Lucia’s gimlet eye pierced Elizabeth’s piffle.
“Do tell him that we hope he feels better soon,” said Georgie. “Look, Lucia, there’s Mrs Brace trying to get our attention. Please excuse us.”
Elizabeth felt she had done more than enough of being kind for one evening. If I have to express enthusiasm one more time for Lucia’s joining, I’ll have a blister on my tongue, she thought. She sat aside her half-empty cup of tea and her uneaten biscuit, and she slipped out of the Institute unnoticed for the cold walk back to Grebe.
~~~~~~~~~~
During the two weeks between the regularly-scheduled meetings of the Tilling Historical Society, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint invited Mrs Brace and some of the other lady members to Grebe for tea. Mrs Brace had little liking for Elizabeth, who had repeatedly snubbed her when she and her son first moved to Tilling not so many years ago, and she declined Elizabeth’s proffered hospitality.
Elizabeth was, if anything, a woman firm in resolution, and she provided a tea which bordered on decadent for the other ladies. She spoke to them in her most velvety voice and poured her syrupy praise on a hideous hat and a remarkably bad hairstyle in order to gain, she hoped, their votes. But several of the ladies were married to local tradesmen and had heard, if not been party to, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s vituperative arguments over her bills.
Major Benjy appreciated the unaccustomed voluptuousness of the tray of leftovers from the tea, which he was served for dinner. “You should invite the historical ladies over more often!” he suggested to his wife.
“Anything to keep Lucia from becoming President! I have been ordering the best cuts of beef and lamb, grouse and partridge, and pâté de fois gras so that the butcher, the poulterer, the grocer, and their wives will vote for me,” said Elizabeth grimly. “Why, I’ve even given away jars and jars of my jelly and jam in hopes of winning votes!”
Major Benjy, who was vastly enjoying the culinary part of his wife’s campaign for President, said encouragingly, “Just keep it up, Girlie! You’ll be elected President if those fools know what’s what!”
Hence, the two weeks passed quickly for Elizabeth, who campaigned everywhere she could think of. In the High Street, she urged her friends Diva Plaistow and Mr and Mrs Wyse to join the Society. “So much history in our quaint little Tilling,” she trilled with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. The wind was cold and she envied Mrs Wyse her sable coat and muff and her Rolls Royce.
“Speaking of Quaint,” said Mr Wyse, bowing to “Quaint” Irene Coles who was striding toward them.
Elizabeth hastily excused herself, “Must run! So many errands for my Benjy-boy,” she said as she fled. If there was a person in Tilling that Elizabeth hated more than Lucia, it was Irene Coles. Irene was a dreadful mimic, and her outspoken and mannish behaviour was feared by Elizabeth, who could never win when verbally jousting with Irene. Irene’s vulgarity either cowed or stung Elizabeth, although the rest of Tilling seemed undisturbed and even amused by it. Only Lucia could bring Irene to heel and curb her tongue.
“Don’t run off, Mapp!” Irene shouted loudly at Elizabeth’s retreating form. Elizabeth waggled her hand in the air without turning around and continued on her way.
“Any news?” asked Irene as she began to fill her pipe.
“Elizabeth joined the Historical Society—,” said Diva.
“And then Lucia and Mr Georgie joined,” interrupted Susan Wyse; “so Elizabeth says they’re copying her.”
Diva continued, “—and there’s an election for President soon, and Elizabeth wants to win.”
Irene gave out a coarse laugh. “That’ll be the day! She’ll never defeat my Lucia!”
“I don’t know,” said Susan, “with Lucia and Mr Georgie being new members—”
Diva responded with an interruption of her own, “Elizabeth’s a new member herself, just joined a couple of months ago.”
Mr Wyse, as usual, held himself aloof from the conversation, although he was listening intently. Now he interjected, “Susan, my dear, your dental appointment. . . .”
“Of course, Algernon,” replied Susan. To Diva and Irene she said, more grandly than necessary, “Please excuse us. I have an appointment to keep.”
Mr Wyse bowed to Diva and then to Irene as he bid them “adieu”. As the Wyses swept away, Diva looked enviously after them. “Must be delightful to have a warm fur coat on a day like today.”
“I can find you a nice pea coat down on the quay, if you like,” offered Irene. “Might even find you one with a warm sailor still in it!” With her pipe clenched between her teeth, she tilted her head to the side and smiled lasciviously at Diva, who snorted in response.
“No thanks. No pea coat. No sailor,” said Diva. “Do drop in for tea some afternoon.” Diva ran a tea shop out of her house four afternoons a week.
“I will if you’re paying,” said Irene, batting her eyes at Diva, who snorted again.
“Au reservoir,” said Diva.
Removing her pipe from her mouth, Irene bowed in perfect imitation of Mr Wyse. “Until teatime, dear lady,” she said in dulcet tones. As she straightened up, she added, “As long as I get a discount.”
“Huh!” Diva responded and walked away.
~~~~~~~~~~
The two weeks passed more slowly for Lucia who campaigned not at all. Or almost.
“Don’t you think you should have the Historical Society to tea?” asked Georgie. “Diva says Elizabeth’s campaigning hard. Ordering pheasant and lamb and other things in order to sway the members.”
“No, Georgie; I do not think they want Elizabeth as President, so I am doing just the opposite. Besides, as new members it would be rude of us to force our way in like Elizabeth,” replied Lucia. “And there have been no official nominations.”
“Your Town Surveyor says they nominate and vote all at once to avoid campaigning,” said Georgie.
“That is wise; it avoids unnecessary friction,” Lucia paused. Then as if changing the subject, she said, “Percy, ‘my Town Surveyor’ as you call him, has been a font of information: Mrs Rice is working on a monograph about old teddy bears to present to the Society, and Mr Sturges, the curate, is an expert on the history of fishing in Tilling, and Percy himself is studying the history of municipal improvements, which is surprisingly interesting. And Dr Brace has presented two papers on old medical practices that have been discredited, complete with what he called ‘quack kits’, one of which gave electric shocks and another that created static electricity,” explained Lucia. “So when I ran into Mrs Rice I told her how much I was looking forward to her presentation, and I expressed my interest in his ‘quack kits’ to Dr Brace, and I asked Mr Sturges for his opinion of my fishing float.”
“So you are campaigning, just not so loudly as Elizabeth,” said Georgie with satisfaction.
~~~~~~~~~~
As with all groups, the Tilling Historical Society had many members, but the group that attended all, or most, of the meetings was small. For this meeting, the Institute was almost full, as members who usually were too busy to attend suddenly found that they wanted to vote. Elizabeth’s sumptuous tea and the unprecedented fact that she had paid her bills two weeks in a row without argument had summoned these less-active members to the Institute.
Mrs Brace tapped her gavel and the room fell silent. “As you know, this is my last night as President. Do we have anyone who would like to become the next President? Nominations, please.”
As instructed, Major Benjy hastily stood, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, and nominated his wife. “Mrs Mapp-Flint has lived in Tilling for many years, and she has access to the deceased Captain Puffin’s unpublished notes on the Roman roads built across the marsh—a work of tremendous import to Tilling.”
“Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace. “Anyone else?”
Percy the Town Surveyor stood and nominated Mrs Emmeline Pillson. There were some blank looks, until the members recalled that Lucia’s given name is Emmeline. “She can lead us in the right direction, if anyone can. The displays for the Tower will benefit greatly from her fund-raising abilities and the Society overall will benefit from her municipal connections.”
“Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace again. “Anyone else?”
Georgie of the Gasworks had heard of the tea party given by Mrs Mapp-Flint and was afraid that she might win the election. So, unaware that he might be splitting the vote, he impulsively stood and nominated Mr George Pillson, who looked shocked, then pleased. “Seeing as Mrs Pillson is so busy with her municipal work, I don’t want to burden her further. I think Mr Pillson would be a good leader, and I’m sure that Mr and Mrs Pillson support one another’s good works,” he explained.
“Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace for a third time. “Anyone else?”
There were no more nominations. Slips of paper were distributed, and all of the members voted; Lucia voted for Georgie, and Georgie voted for himself. Georgie of the Gasworks voted for Mr Pillson and, by nudging his brother Percy, who sat beside him, and surreptitiously nodding toward Mr Pillson, he got Percy to vote for Mr Pillson also. Mr Sturges, the curate, voted for Lucia, for he thought she played piano divinely and was hoping that she would host more of her musical evenings to which he would be invited; her donation of the fishing-net float made in Tilling delighted him and he was eager to discuss it further with her. Major Benjy surprised himself by voting for Georgie (he later rationalized that “history should be kept in the hands of men, even if that man is Miss Milliner Michelangelo”). And Elizabeth Mapp-Flint voted for herself. The voting slips were gathered in, and Mrs Morrison, who was the Secretary, tallied the vote, noting with a suppressed smile that the only vote for Mrs Mapp-Flint was her own.
The extravagant tea, the luxurious orders, and the uncontested payment of bills had all worked against Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for they had reminded everyone how spendthrift and argumentative was her usual behaviour. The words of the Foreman of the Gasworks had carried much weight with the Society members, and there was a clear winner. The Secretary passed to Mrs Brace a slip of paper with the winner’s name on it.
Mrs Brace stood. “The votes are in and have been tallied. I am happy to officially pass the Presidency of the Tilling Historical Society over to Mr George Pillson!” She held out the gavel to Georgie, who rose and accepted it.
There was applause, the sound of which covered the sound of Elizabeth’s gnashing teeth. Then she remembered that she was in public, so she attempted to smile sweetly and look a bit forlorn at the same time as she joined in the applause.
Again the meeting ended with tea. Lucia was talking with Georgie of the Gasworks. “I bought one other item whilst shopping for my fishing-net float but, until I can get it professionally evaluated in London, I shall hold off on donating it. A rather nice sword. If it is from the correct period, we can say it was a smuggler’s sword, perhaps,” said Lucia brightly. “I am told that Major Benjy also donated a sword.”
“Yes; it isn’t antique, any more than the Major himself, but it will do for our armoury display,” said Georgie of the Gasworks.
“There’s a little shop in Hastings that had an interesting display of knives, if you need more for the armoury. Quite inexpensive, I think because they’re ‘second-hand’ instead of ‘antique.’ I can give you the address. But I should warn you that the shop is in a rough neighbourhood.”
Georgie Pillson joined them. “Thank you so much for nominating me. I must say I was shocked that you should want me as president, but I shall do my best.”
Percy chipped in, “It was a stroke of genius, Georgie Old-Boy,” he nodded to his brother. Turning to the newly-elected President of the Tilling Historical Society, he said, “And I’m sure you have some ideas about fund-raising for us, President Pillson.” He turned to Lucia. “How well we remember the fête in aid of the hospital that you held in the garden at Mallards House soon after you came to Tilling.”
“Yes,” said Lucia. “My Georgie and I will think of something.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Heard you lost,” Quaint Irene greeted Elizabeth then next day in the High Street.
“It is just as well. As my Benjy-boy points out to me, we have very little time to put into research of the sort that the Historical Society desires,” replied Elizabeth.
“So you lost,” said Irene, who was not to be distracted by an historical red herring.
“With my municipal duties as Councillor and Mayoress, my Benjy was complaining that I am away from husband and home far too much. He is insisting that we resign our memberships.”
“So you lost,” said Irene, who was not to be distracted by a municipal red herring, “and now you’re giving up,” she added.
Elizabeth bridled. “Not at all. Simply obeying my husband. One day when you’re married, you may understand the bonds between man and wife. Until then. . . .” Elizabeth broke off as Diva trundled up.
Diva’s arrival kept Quaint Irene, who was not to be distracted by a marital red herring, from again saying, “You lost, and now you’re giving up.” Because of her odd, birdlike walk, Diva looks like a sparrow who just caught sight of a worm, thought Elizabeth, and I’m the worm.
“So sorry you lost,” began Diva. The subtle approach was not Diva’s forte, but she was not malicious in her bluntness, which Irene certainly was.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond but Irene cut in, demanding, “Did you get Lucia’s invitation to dinner for tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” said Diva.
“I’ll see you then. Off to paint the quay. I’ll keep an eye out for a suitable sailor to share his pea coat with you,” Quaint Irene gave Diva a leering wink and walked off.
Diva looked at Elizabeth, and without bothering to explain about the pea coat, Diva asked, “You did get invited, too?”
“Yes,” affirmed Elizabeth, “but it would be inappropriate in the current circumstances for myself and my Benjy-boy to attend.”
“What circumstances?” demanded Diva. “Just be a graceful loser and come. Congratulate Mr Georgie.” Not for the first time Diva urged, “Rise above it, Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth felt she should be pressed further before giving in. “Diva, dear; Mr Georgie has no experience as the leader of an organization. My Benjy says he will have us all looking quite the guy and dressed in tights. I do not want make a travesty by dressing up as something I am not. Major Benjy is urging me to resign, and he intends to resign himself.” The first part of this was mendacious; Major Benjy was not urging her to resign, although he had spoken of resigning himself, thinking he would get two evenings each month in which he could enjoy a drink without his wife’s interference.
“Look at it this way,” countered Diva. “Free dinner. You’ll get to hear if Mr Georgie has any plans for fancy dress. I, for one, hope he has; I enjoy dressing up.”
“We all know you do, dear,” said Elizabeth acidly. “I shall see what my Benjy has to say. Perhaps we will come.”
“Or if Mr Georgie has any other plans. I’m thinking of joining if he’s planning another fête.”
“You might want to reconsider, dear. Dressing up is one thing but taking a serious interest in history is another.”
Diva suppressed a snort. “History can be made to be fun,” she said, “and if anyone can make it fun, Mr Georgie can.”
Thus the two ladies parted.
THE END
For further information, please visit http://www.ryemuseum.co.uk/index.php/2009/03/smuggling/
Text Copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford
“Of course I can spare you ten minutes, gentlemen; please come into my office.” The three entered the small room off the hall at the front of the house which served as Lucia’s office. “Please be seated,” she said.
“Thank you, Ma’am, but we’d prefer to stand,” said Percy nervously. The two brothers, who were usually full of jokes and laughter, presented grave faces.
“Certainly. How can I be of assistance? Something wrong in the Football or the Cricket Club?” Lucia was President of the Tilling Football and Cricket Clubs, elected after donating a heavy roller for the playing field and subsequently donating jerseys in the Tilling colours to the members of the football team and white flannels to the members of the cricket team. She was currently considering the purchase of state-of-the-art cricket bats for “my cricket players.”
“No, Ma’am,” said Georgie. “It’s much more important than that.”
“You see, Ma’am, we’re members of the Tilling Historical Society,” said Percy. “Mrs Brace, the doctor’s mother, was President but is stepping down. We have to elect a new president.”
Lucia assumed that the brothers were here to offer her the presidency. “As much as I would like to join the Historical Society, I would have to consider it carefully. There are many demands on my time: as Mayor, as President of the Football and Cricket Clubs, and I sit on the Parish Council, and the hospital’s Board of Directors and that of the Workhouse. But my interest in the history and archaeology of Tilling is deep and profound, so if you really need my help. . . .” she trailed off.
“Oh, Ma’am! We don’t like to ask. It’s just that we have something of a crisis: your fellow Councillor, Mrs Mapp-Flint, recently joined the Historical Society and is putting herself forward to become next president,” Georgie paused.
Percy, who had worked with Mrs Pillson for quite some time and was more comfortable talking to her than was his brother, was more forthcoming. “It would be a disaster! Already she’s begun trying to use the Society politically. You remember at last council meeting, she didn’t want the new drains put in because it would destroy our historical cobbled streets?”
Lucia nodded, “I do remember.”
“Mrs Mapp-Flint was against the new drains from the first, complaining about the rates but . . .” Percy paused and his brother Georgie shifted his cap nervously in his hands.
“Yes? Please, speak frankly,” urged Lucia.
“Well, Ma’am, ever since she found out that your gift is funding the new drains, she’s been trying even harder than usual to stop progress,” continued Percy.
“She even offered Mayor Twistevant a cut rate on the fruits and vegetables that she sells him for his shop, if he would support her,” put in Georgie of the Gasworks.
That explains why Twistevant and Elizabeth have been supporting one another’s agendas at Council meetings, thought Lucia.
“And Twistevant seems all for it, too!” cried an upset and angry Percy. “Now she wants to use the Historical Society to stop the drains, beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am. Wants to have people down from London or Oxford to do a study and intends to put it forward at the next Council meeting.”
“I am sure the Council will vote with us in favour of the new drains,” said Lucia. “All of the tradesmen want improved sanitation, and they know that they probably will never get a better offer to modernize that I am offering them.” Lucia was donating one third of the funds for the new drains, and humility was not Lucia’s way, especially in times of crisis. “And even if Mr Twistevant votes with Mrs Mapp-Flint against new drains so he can get cut-price fruit and vegetables, he knows that the other councillors will vote for them and over-ride his vote.”
“We’re not so worried about the Council, Ma’am,” said Georgie, “we know you can handle them.” Percy nodded in agreement. “It’s the Historical Society. We were hoping you’d join and we could put you forward as president instead of Mrs Mapp-Flint.” He stopped. Both brothers stood for a moment, still nervously shifting their caps around in their hands.
Lucia considered. She was disappointed to realize that she would have to run against Elizabeth for the Presidency, instead of being co-opted for the Presidency, as she had been initially for Town Councillor. On the other hand, the idea of defeating Elizabeth was certainly attractive.
“Please, Ma’am!” Percy burst out plaintively, “You’re the only one who can stop her from ruining the Historical Society!”
Georgie grinned at his brother, “Not to mention that the new drainage system is dear to Percy’s heart.” His familiar teasing eased the intensity of his brother’s reaction to the machinations of Mrs Mapp-Flint, who had been appointed Mayoress by Lucia and had won her council seat because of that appointment.
“I don’t deny that, Ma’am. With your funding,” Percy said, “and your help in planning the drains,” he added diplomatically, although Mrs Pillson had nothing to do with the real planning, “We can leave a lasting mark on Tilling. I want go down in Tilling history as the man who saved the drains,” Percy continued fervently, “Just like the surveyors who saved London after the Great Stink of 1858.” There was a pause as Percy recovered himself from his dream of glory in the drains of Tilling and then apologized.
“No, do not apologize,” said Lucia, raising a hand. “It is a noble dream and I am happy to help you to realize it.” She looked earnestly at the brothers, who looked hopefully back at her.
“How you all work me!” she said with a smile. “And how do I go about becoming a member of the Tilling Historical Society?”
Delighted, the brothers smiled back at their benefactress.
A few minutes later, Lucia showed the men to the door herself, promising that she and her husband would attend the meeting of the Historical Society the following evening.
She went into the garden-room where her husband, also called Georgie, was just starting his tea.
“There are muffins,” he announced, pouring out a cup of tea for Lucia. “What did Gas and Drains want?” he asked facetiously.
“They asked to put us up for membership in the Tilling Historical Society. I told them we’d be happy to join.”
“No! Really? Will we do more fêtes and tableaux and dress up as historical characters?” asked Georgie in a rush of words. He liked to dress in the height of fashion, whatever the era, and was eager to begin planning costumes; he loved doing needlework but had become tired of petit- and gros-point and endless embroidery. Costuming himself, Lucia, and their friends would be a welcome diversion.
“We will go to the meeting tomorrow evening and see if they vote us in—not a problem with that, say ‘Gas and Drains,’” replied Lucia.
“Good,” said Georgie. He realized that the Historical Society would give him a chance to do something for Tilling; being simply the husband of the first female Mayor of Tilling was not enough. I’ll have to find out what they want; funds, of course, but what else? Perhaps there’s a niche for me and I can step out of Lucia’s shadow.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Tilling Historical Society met at the Institute, as the Ypres Tower, its main attraction, was unheated and cold this time of year. The Pillsons were duly voted in as members of the Tilling Historical Society. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, while unhappy about it, smiled and sweetly voted “Yea” only because everyone else had done so.
“However, there is the matter of the donation,” she reminded the members, without bothering to be recognized by the President.
“We will be happy to help fund whatever ideas you have,” said Lucia quickly, and Georgie nodded.
“It is not that simple, Lulu dear,” said Elizabeth still smiling saccharine at Lucia, her detested rival for queen of Tilling society; she used “Lulu” knowing how much Lucia disliked being called by that hideous abbreviation.
Mrs Brace explained: the Society members were gathering display items for the Ypres Tower and Museum, and over the past several years each new member donated an item, or items, of historical interest. “Tourists come in charabancs to see that sort of thing,” Mrs Brace said, “So you are now probationary members; full membership is contingent upon each of you donating a suitable item.”
After the business of the meeting was over, the full members and the two probationary members gathered for tea, Lucia asked, “Tell me, dear Elizabeth, what was your donation?”
“Yes, please give us some idea of what the Society is looking for,” added Georgie Pillson tactfully.
“Major Benjy donated an antique sword for the armoury display, and I donated Tilling Pottery Pigs,” replied Elizabeth.
“Of course! We should have guessed. How generous of you to sacrifice your collection for Tilling!” said Lucia effusively.
Elizabeth smiled and thanked her, omitting to add that she had not donated her entire collection of pottery pigs; she had only donated three pigs that were duplicates to those already in her collection, and the donated pigs had been glued together after Major Benjy knocked them on the floor. Her own “rainbow of quaint little piggies” was safe on a shelf in the dining room at Grebe, her house outside of Tilling on the marshes.
“But remember, the items must be of historical significance to Tilling,” admonished Elizabeth.
“And where is Major Benjy tonight?” asked Lucia.
“He had a touch of biliousness; I positively insisted that my Benjy-boy stay at Grebe until he felt better.”
“Do tell him that we asked after him and we hope he feels better soon,” said Georgie.
“Thank you, I shall,” said Elizabeth, and once again sinning by omission, she failed to add that the biliousness was almost certainly caused by an over-indulgence in the Golf Club’s whisky.
As they walked home, Lucia and Georgie discussed possible donations. Broken clay pipes excavated from the garden at Mallards House suggested Lucia. Georgie reminded her that they had reburied all the things (he wisely refrained from calling them “rubbish,” which in fact they were) that they had dug up. And those things had definitely proved to be less than antique after all.
Broken pieces of Samian ware, she then suggested. Georgie reminded her that the Samian ware had been recovered from a field near Riseholme, the village in the Cotswolds in which Lucia and Georgie had lived prior to moving to Tilling, and were not part of the rubbish they dug up and re-buried at Mallards House.
Lucia silently wished that Georgie’s memory was not quite so good and that his honesty was not quite so interfering.
"Some of your bibelots," she suggested.
Georgie stopped in the middle of the historically-cobbled street. “No!” he exclaimed. “I’m not giving up my bibelots! We’ll have to find something else.”
“Very well, caro,” said Lucia soothingly. “But remember, we do not have much time. We must save the Tilling Historical Society from Elizabeth Mapp-Flint!”
~~~~~~~~~~
Breakfast at Grebe was not fun for Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint. As a bachelor, he often had to suffer burnt porridge, but burnt porridge was nothing when compared to facing his wife when she was in a “mood”—and she was always in one mood or another. Major Benjy tried to hide behind the newspaper, but his wife would not quit talking, which demanded some response on his part.
“. . . and the effrontery of that woman! She found out that I had joined the Historical Society and has to push herself in, just to copy me.” Elizabeth bit into a piece of toast, chewed ferociously, and swallowed. “As usual, she is trying to buy her membership. Luckily I put a stop to that.”
“How’s that, Girlie?” replied Major Benjy vaguely, more interested in the sporting news than his wife’s latest tempest in a teacup.
“Each of the Pillsons must donate an item of historical significance to Tilling instead of giving money.” She crashed her way through another piece of toast, pausing to notice that her quince jelly tasted quite good, just the right balance of sweet and tart.
“You’ll beat her this time!” said the Major encouragingly, while still reading the racing results: at last! His bookmaker would owe him a little money this week. Perhaps he could pay a little in on his bill at the wine merchant’s.
“They do not have much time. Elections for the President of the Historical Society will be in four weeks; I am certain to win if Lucia does not get in the way.”
“Of course you’ll win,” said the Major. He swallowed his tea at a gulp. “Off to golf!” He shouldered his bag and walked off to the golf course, leaving his wife to fret alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was at luncheon ten days later that Lucia asked Georgie if he had found anything historical that would gain them full membership in the Society.
“Nothing. It’s too tarsome. Foljambe and I have been through every wardrobe and cupboard. Neither I nor any of our staff can think of anything appropriate. I’ve combed through every shop in Tilling and found nothing. I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” said Georgie dejectedly.
“And I am sure that you will think of something,” responded his wife. “Perhaps while I am at Town Hall you will have one of your marvellous ideas.”
Georgie sighed quietly. Just like Lucia, leaving me to do the work, he thought.
After Lucia had left, Georgie’s trusted maid Foljambe came into his oak-panelled sitting room where he sat sewing. "Pardon me, Sir, but Cadman would like a word,” she said. Cadman was Lucia’s chauffeur and also Foljambe’s husband. Georgie could never adjust to calling his maid “Cadman” and so she had kept her maiden name for work.
“Yes, Cadman?”
“Excuse me, Sir, but it’s been ever so long since you took the Rolls out, what with you and Mrs Pillson riding your bicycles or walking everywhere. I hoped a road trip might help you find the historical items you need, Sir,” said the chauffeur. “Just like a game of Scavenger Hunt.”
This re-ignited Georgie’s interest in finding suitable items. He laid aside his embroidery. “I never thought of it like that! I haven’t played Scavenger Hunt since I was a boy. But where would we hunt?”
“Well, Sir, I noticed some little antique and gift shops in Hastings; I was going to suggest them when you were in need of a new . . .bibelot? Is that the right word, Sir?”
“Exactly the right word, Cadman.”
“And if Hastings won’t serve, then there’s always Folkestone or even Brighton, and places in between,” continued Cadman. “And the Rolls does need to be taken out every so often, Sir; it’s bad for the engine to let it sit too long.”
“Excellent idea! A Scavenger Hunt! We’ll start tomorrow. Foljambe can come with us and we’ll make a party of it. Tomorrow, first thing after breakfast,” decided Georgie.
“Very good, Sir.”
Georgie realized that Cadman, probably at Foljambe’s urging, had just offered a solution to his problem. “And, Cadman. . . .”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Thank you,” said Georgie with sincerity.
“My pleasure, Sir,” Cadman said and he left the room.
A Scavenger Hunt! thought Georgie. It should be okay since Hermy and Ursy aren’t here. Hermoine and Ursula were Georgie’s strapping sisters, who were as mannish in their behaviour as Georgie was feminine. The last time Georgie had gone on a Scavenger Hunt was when he was a small boy, and he was forced by his sisters to scavenge “Mam’selle’s underpants” from the governess’s wardrobe. As a “lark,” his sisters then told Mam’selle that they had seen him entering her room; his discovery with underpants in hand had led to hysterics from both Mam’selle and Georgie. The incident had left him scarred for life. His sisters had been punished, and the words “Scavenger Hunt” were never uttered again. But now his sisters were either shooting or playing golf or hunting otters in Scotland, and the list of what was to be scavenged was narrow, if vague, so there was no risk of underclothing or emotional trauma being involved.
Lucia returned from Town Hall, where there was no business to detain her but still she had remained there for an hour in case work should suddenly arise.
Georgie said firmly, “Lucia. Tomorrow we’re going on a Scavenger Hunt. We’re leaving right after breakfast. Hastings, and anywhere else that we might find historical things.”
“I do not think I should leave Tilling, so many things to do—”
“Nonsense. You can skip any meetings you might have. A change of air, and I know we shall find the perfect items, one for me and one for you, to give to the Historical Society. I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer: we’re going!”
Lucia gave her silvery laugh, “Caro! It shall be as you say, a Scavenger Hunt.” Thus were the words “Scavenger Hunt” cleansed of any negative emotional associations in Georgie’s mind, so long as Hermy and Ursy were not present.
Georgie wanted to take credit for the idea, but being a gentleman, he could not do so. “Cadman’s idea; he says that the Rolls needs to be taken out or the engine will plug up, or something; I never realized that automobiles need to be exercised, like horses. And Cadman knows were there are some shops in Hastings that may have what we need.”
“An excellent plan, Georgie. Should I pack a case?”
“No. Just a day trip. We’ll leave early. If we don’t find what we want, I’ll go to Folkestone tomorrow and scour the country-side for something appropriate. I want to give the Ypres Tower something better to display than pottery pigs,” said Georgie spiritedly, “but we’re running out of time.”
“That reminds me. Percy, my Town Surveyor, corrected a false impression that Elizabeth gave us: she donated only three pigs, all with chips and cracks in them; not the whole collection at all.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. She probably glued them back together after Benjy stumbled and broke them. She always cheats,” observed Georgie, who was closer to the truth than he knew. “But I’m determined she shan’t win this time.”
~~~~~~~~~~
And so it was in the highest of spirits that the party from Mallards House set out the next morning, despite the cold winter weather. Foljambe thoughtfully put rugs, and hot water bottles, and two large thermos bottles of hot tea, and a small bottle of brandy in the Rolls Royce.
To help keep warm, Georgie wore a fur cape of sheared Canadian beaver over his coat. Lucia touched the fur gently. “Is that a new cape? How lovely! Mrs Wyse will be jealous.” She referred to their friend Susan Wyse, who wore her sables even in the hottest days of summer.
“Perhaps. But my little cape will seem a paltry thing beside her great sable coat and muff.” Georgie omitted to say that the cape had been a gift from his friend Olga Bracely, the Prima Donna.
“Your fur is so much nicer, softer, than her sables,” said Lucia, knowing that Georgie loved a compliment.
“I think so, too,” said Georgie as they drove off, the engine of the Rolls purring happily.
The marshes outside Tilling were in their winter colours, and a lapwing flashed by, it's feathers white and iridescent green against the grey sky. Georgie pointed out that he had little experience in painting winter scenes and said he should try doing so, except that it was uncomfortable to sit out in the cold. His wife agreed. There was a lull in the conversation; Lucia and Georgie gazed out the windows as the Rolls moved smoothly along the tarmac.
Suddenly, Lucia said, “Georgie, there’s something I must tell you. It’s about Elizabeth Mapp-Flint; her actions have left me with a moral dilemma.”
Instantly interested, Georgie said, “Please do tell.”
“I’ve learned that Elizabeth has given Twistevant a lower price on the produce she supplies to his shop as long as he supports her in trying to keep my drains from going in. A bribe, Georgie!” said Lucia.
“I have no trouble believing that. Though it’s foolish of Twistevant, isn’t it?”
“Very foolish, Georgie. Why, if anyone had proof that he accepted a bribe, he could be removed, in disgrace, from the office of Councillor.”
Georgie suddenly realized what Lucia was thinking: if Twistevant was removed from office, Elizabeth would lose her only supporter in her foolish fight against Lucia's drains. And if Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was forced off the Council, so much the better for Lucia. Georgie knew to tread cautiously. “And do you have proof?” he asked.
“Just hearsay.”
“Well, I’m no expert, but I doubt you’ll be able to get him to step down based upon gossip,” said Georgie. “If confronted, he and Elizabeth will both deny it completely. And I’m sure Mr Twistevant has his own supporters on the Town Council, even if Elizabeth doesn’t.”
Lucia began in her most Mayoral voice, “But when I see my duty—“
Georgie interrupted. “No, Lucia. Even if it is gossip,” Georgie stuck to that word, ignoring Lucia’s use of the word hearsay, “This is public and political. You must rise above such petty things as cut-price cauliflower. You could end up with mud on your face if you fight Elizabeth in her own garden.”
Lucia knew that she did not have enough evidence to act upon. “As you say, Caro. I shall take your advice, sound as a man’s advice always is,” she said as the Rolls purred its way into St-Leonards-on-Sea, just west of Hastings. “I shall bide my time,” she added quietly. She knew that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint would one day slip up, and that she, Lucia, would be there to see it.
Cadman pulled up in front of a shop on Norman Road. He helped Lucia and Georgie out of the Rolls. They looked up and down, noting that there were several antique and curio shops on the street.
“Cadman, you have chosen well. Please find someplace nearby to park the car; I shan’t want you following us up and down the street like the Wyses do in Tilling. We shall meet you at that tea shop,” Lucia pointed down the street to a sign for Clement’s Tea Shop, “in two hours.” Once again Lucia had referred to Susan Wyse, who had her chauffeur drive her in her Rolls Royce to do the shopping each morning in Tilling’s High Street, stopping at each shop in turn.
Cadman touched the bill of his cap. “Very good, Madam,” he said.
And Lucia and Georgie began their Scavenger Hunt.
Two hours later, empty-handed, they entered Clement’s Tea Shop and ordered tea and cakes. After drinking their hot tea on this cold day, the party from Mallards House returned to the Rolls Royce.
“We saw several possible items, but there was nothing that really stood out,” said Georgie to Foljambe. “I want something that will really impress, a public bibelot.” Georgie was a fervent over his public bibelot as was Percy over his public drains.
I wonder, mused Lucia silently, if the other Georgie is as fervent over his gasworks?
“Where to now, Cadman? Into Hastings?” asked Lucia
“Yes, Madam. There are more antique shops there. But, beggin’ your pardon, there’s one shop by the Fisherman’s Museum in Hastings Old Town that I think you should see.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hastings Old Town,” said Georgie, who paid a monthly visit to Hastings to see his barber in order to procure the dye for his auburn hair. The fact that Mr Georgie dyed his hair and wore a toupee was an open secret in Tilling, and therefore safe from the world and never spoken of in his presence.
“Actually, Sir, it’s in a rather rough part of town. You should know that before you agree to go there. But I think it will be a worthwhile visit.”
Lucia and Georgie looked at each other, weighing the need for an outstanding antique against possibly hearing rough language or being accosted in the street.
“I think we should try it,” said Lucia, who was not afraid of anything and who knew how much it meant to Georgie to find the perfect item to donate.
“If I might make a suggestion, Madam,” said Cadman.
“Of course.”
“If you don’t mind walking, Madam, Sir, there is a car park several blocks away from the shop, in a better part of town. We could park the car there and Doris—Foljambe—and I can accompany you on foot,” offered Cadman.
Georgie was still uncertain; someone “rough” was bound to say something nasty about his cape.
Foljambe looked at her employer. “Safety in numbers, Sir,” she said brightly.
Reassured, Georgie nodded. “Yes, Cadman, we’ll do exactly as you say.”
A few minutes later, Lucia and Georgie followed Cadman and preceded Foljambe down a street in a distinctly dingy part of Hastings. A few people stared, and a grubby child of indeterminate gender pointed at Georgie in his cape or, perhaps, at Cadman in his chauffeur’s uniform.
“Tarsome child,” murmured Georgie.
“He should be in school, should he not?” Lucia asked, but got no reply.
The Pillsons were relieved when Cadman held open a shop door for them to enter. Lucia and Georgie went in, and Cadman and Foljambe waited just inside the door, out of the cold.
Georgie looked around. A stout elderly woman emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop. She was rough-looking but her clothing was clean and neat, if old, and her shop was cleaner than Lucia and Georgie had expected it to be.
“Help you folks?” she asked.
Lucia answered, “We’re looking for collectibles to display in our museum in Tilling.”
“Have a look ‘round then,” the proprietoress said and shuffled off to busy herself sorting through a quantity of fishing lures while Foljambe engaged her in conversation. Cadman waited watchfully just inside the door.
The somewhat inadequate lighting reflected from several large, iridescent glass balls on a table. Georgie looked them over. “What are these?” he called out.
“Fishing net floats. Glass. Pretty, aren’t they,” the woman replied.
“They are pretty,” said Georgie as the woman left her hooks and walked toward them. “I don’t suppose any relate to Tilling?”
“Just that large one, Sir, the kinda gold one,” she indicated one of the larger floats, “made in Tilling. There was a small shop there as used to make them, years ago, when my grandmother was a girl. Gone now, for years and years, that shop.”
“There must be many of these floats about, so close to Tilling,” said Lucia.
“Never seen another, and I’ve been working the second-hand shop here ‘most all my life,” said the woman.
Lucia said, “We may be interested, but we need to look around some more.”
“Lucia!” Georgie gasped; he had moved further away, toward the back of the shop. He was looking at a strange metal object, slightly rusted. “What is this? It looks like a lantern, but not quite.”
Smuggler's Lamp (Photo by Clive Sawyer).
“That’s an old smuggler’s lamp,” said the woman. “For them as worked owling.”
Georgie and Lucia looked confused, and the woman barked a laugh. “Owling. An old name for the smuggling trade.”
Georgie and Lucia smiled, and Lucia stored the word away in her mind for future use.
“How does the lamp work?” asked Georgie.
“Put a candle in it. A smuggling man held it, and put his hand over the end of the spout. He could cover and uncover the light to signal the smuggling ships; they could see the signal, even far out to sea.”
“Perfect!” said Georgie. “I’ll take it!” To his great relief, he had found the very antique, Tilling-related, historical item he wanted.
The woman named her price for the smuggler’s lamp and for the Tilling glass float. Georgie, who would have paid almost anything for the lamp, was happy to find that both items were unexpectedly inexpensive.
Lucia was looking a glass case in which was an array of knives and two swords. The woman noticed her looking.
“Keep ‘em locked up, so no one gets any funny ideas,” she said.
“This sword looks quite old. Could it have belonged to a smuggler?” asked Lucia.
“Old, yes. Dunno how old, though, Ma’am. Dunno who it belonged to, either,” said the woman.
“Just a hunch. But I’ll take the sword, too,” said Lucia.
The woman wrapped up the items in brown paper, and Georgie took charge of the smuggler’s lamp, Foljambe, of the float, and Lucia, of the sword.
“Let me carry that for you, Madam,” said Cadman.
Lucia replied, “No, Cadman, I can carry it.” Remembering that they had to pass once again through a rough part of town, “Just in case we have to fight our way back to the Rolls,” she joked. She wanted Cadman unencumbered in case some ne’er-do-well accosted them in the street. Georgie’s beautiful cape was conspicuous in this part of Hastings.
“Very good, Madam,” Cadman replied.
After regaining the Rolls Royce without incident, the party from Mallards House retired to the dining room of one of the better hotels for a late luncheon, their purchases safely hidden in the boot.
“What an adventure!” said Georgie. “We must tell them that we braved the squalid underbelly of Hastings to get a real smuggler’s lamp!”
“Elizabeth will be furious. These things are so much nicer than her pigs,” said Lucia.
Georgie giggled at the image of a furious Elizabeth, or perhaps the bubbles from the celebratory half-bottle of champagne that Lucia had ordered tickled him. “I can see her now! Her face will be all pinched in, then she’ll smile her widest and say what a nice lamp it is, but isn’t it a little rusty.”
At their own table nearby, Foljambe and Cadman congratulated each other for the successful outing. Mr Pillson had ordered a half-bottle of champagne for them, so pleased was he with his smuggler’s lamp.
“Mr Pillson is happier than I’ve seen him in weeks,” said Foljambe. “I hope they won’t be upset if they ever find out that the woman who owns that shop is your Auntie.”
Cadman grinned.
~~~~~~~~~~
At the next meeting of the Tilling Historical Society, Georgie and Lucia presented the lamp and the float. The lamp was, of course, a huge success. And the float aroused interest, as Georgie of the Gasworks, after being properly recognized by Mrs Brace, recalled that his granddad’s dad had worked briefly at the glass factory in Tilling, just before it closed. “Rare, these are,” he said. “They only made a couple of batches of them, made them from our very own Tilling sand and for our very own Tilling fishing boats. This float and Mr Pillson’s lamp will make our Ypres Tower display stand out!”
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was recognized and praised the donations from her friends the Pillsons. “. . . and that smuggler’s lamp is wonderful,” she said, smiling ferociously, “if a little rusty.”
Georgie glanced at Lucia, and both suppressed smiles. The elevation of the Pillsons to full members was unanimous; Elizabeth voted “Yea” in her most cooing voice and gave her friends a sweet smile.
After the meeting adjourned, the group had tea and biscuits. Percy and his brother Georgie approached Lucia and her husband Georgie.
“Election's in two weeks,” said Percy quietly, for fear of being overheard by Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. “I’m grateful to you for letting us nominate you.”
“I have a duty to Tilling and must shoulder the burden resolutely,” said Lucia. “How you all work me!” she laughed.
“Spiffing lantern, that,” said Georgie of the Gasworks, after rapidly swallowing a biscuit. “But a little rusty,” he mimicked Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, but not quite as accurately as Quaint Irene Coles was able to do. “Marvellous, rust or no rust!” Georgie Pillson thanked him.
Percy said, “I haven’t thought about the glassworks in, well, I don’t know how long. Never thought to see one of those floats again. Maybe our great-granddad helped make it!”
“Here she comes!” warned Percy’s brother, and they stepped back to make room for Elizabeth.
“How delightful to have you join us!” she said as she kissed the air next to Lucia’s cheek and then shook Mr Georgie’s hand. She did not offer her hand to Georgie of the Gasworks nor to Percy of the Drains.
“And we are delighted to be here,” said Lucia. “But where is Major Benjy tonight? Has he lost interest in history?”
“Strained a muscle playing golf,” said Elizabeth with alacrity.
More likely staying in so he can drink without Elizabeth’s interference, thought Georgie, as Lucia’s gimlet eye pierced Elizabeth’s piffle.
“Do tell him that we hope he feels better soon,” said Georgie. “Look, Lucia, there’s Mrs Brace trying to get our attention. Please excuse us.”
Elizabeth felt she had done more than enough of being kind for one evening. If I have to express enthusiasm one more time for Lucia’s joining, I’ll have a blister on my tongue, she thought. She sat aside her half-empty cup of tea and her uneaten biscuit, and she slipped out of the Institute unnoticed for the cold walk back to Grebe.
~~~~~~~~~~
During the two weeks between the regularly-scheduled meetings of the Tilling Historical Society, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint invited Mrs Brace and some of the other lady members to Grebe for tea. Mrs Brace had little liking for Elizabeth, who had repeatedly snubbed her when she and her son first moved to Tilling not so many years ago, and she declined Elizabeth’s proffered hospitality.
Elizabeth was, if anything, a woman firm in resolution, and she provided a tea which bordered on decadent for the other ladies. She spoke to them in her most velvety voice and poured her syrupy praise on a hideous hat and a remarkably bad hairstyle in order to gain, she hoped, their votes. But several of the ladies were married to local tradesmen and had heard, if not been party to, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s vituperative arguments over her bills.
Major Benjy appreciated the unaccustomed voluptuousness of the tray of leftovers from the tea, which he was served for dinner. “You should invite the historical ladies over more often!” he suggested to his wife.
“Anything to keep Lucia from becoming President! I have been ordering the best cuts of beef and lamb, grouse and partridge, and pâté de fois gras so that the butcher, the poulterer, the grocer, and their wives will vote for me,” said Elizabeth grimly. “Why, I’ve even given away jars and jars of my jelly and jam in hopes of winning votes!”
Major Benjy, who was vastly enjoying the culinary part of his wife’s campaign for President, said encouragingly, “Just keep it up, Girlie! You’ll be elected President if those fools know what’s what!”
Hence, the two weeks passed quickly for Elizabeth, who campaigned everywhere she could think of. In the High Street, she urged her friends Diva Plaistow and Mr and Mrs Wyse to join the Society. “So much history in our quaint little Tilling,” she trilled with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. The wind was cold and she envied Mrs Wyse her sable coat and muff and her Rolls Royce.
“Speaking of Quaint,” said Mr Wyse, bowing to “Quaint” Irene Coles who was striding toward them.
Elizabeth hastily excused herself, “Must run! So many errands for my Benjy-boy,” she said as she fled. If there was a person in Tilling that Elizabeth hated more than Lucia, it was Irene Coles. Irene was a dreadful mimic, and her outspoken and mannish behaviour was feared by Elizabeth, who could never win when verbally jousting with Irene. Irene’s vulgarity either cowed or stung Elizabeth, although the rest of Tilling seemed undisturbed and even amused by it. Only Lucia could bring Irene to heel and curb her tongue.
“Don’t run off, Mapp!” Irene shouted loudly at Elizabeth’s retreating form. Elizabeth waggled her hand in the air without turning around and continued on her way.
“Any news?” asked Irene as she began to fill her pipe.
“Elizabeth joined the Historical Society—,” said Diva.
“And then Lucia and Mr Georgie joined,” interrupted Susan Wyse; “so Elizabeth says they’re copying her.”
Diva continued, “—and there’s an election for President soon, and Elizabeth wants to win.”
Irene gave out a coarse laugh. “That’ll be the day! She’ll never defeat my Lucia!”
“I don’t know,” said Susan, “with Lucia and Mr Georgie being new members—”
Diva responded with an interruption of her own, “Elizabeth’s a new member herself, just joined a couple of months ago.”
Mr Wyse, as usual, held himself aloof from the conversation, although he was listening intently. Now he interjected, “Susan, my dear, your dental appointment. . . .”
“Of course, Algernon,” replied Susan. To Diva and Irene she said, more grandly than necessary, “Please excuse us. I have an appointment to keep.”
Mr Wyse bowed to Diva and then to Irene as he bid them “adieu”. As the Wyses swept away, Diva looked enviously after them. “Must be delightful to have a warm fur coat on a day like today.”
“I can find you a nice pea coat down on the quay, if you like,” offered Irene. “Might even find you one with a warm sailor still in it!” With her pipe clenched between her teeth, she tilted her head to the side and smiled lasciviously at Diva, who snorted in response.
“No thanks. No pea coat. No sailor,” said Diva. “Do drop in for tea some afternoon.” Diva ran a tea shop out of her house four afternoons a week.
“I will if you’re paying,” said Irene, batting her eyes at Diva, who snorted again.
“Au reservoir,” said Diva.
Removing her pipe from her mouth, Irene bowed in perfect imitation of Mr Wyse. “Until teatime, dear lady,” she said in dulcet tones. As she straightened up, she added, “As long as I get a discount.”
“Huh!” Diva responded and walked away.
~~~~~~~~~~
The two weeks passed more slowly for Lucia who campaigned not at all. Or almost.
“Don’t you think you should have the Historical Society to tea?” asked Georgie. “Diva says Elizabeth’s campaigning hard. Ordering pheasant and lamb and other things in order to sway the members.”
“No, Georgie; I do not think they want Elizabeth as President, so I am doing just the opposite. Besides, as new members it would be rude of us to force our way in like Elizabeth,” replied Lucia. “And there have been no official nominations.”
“Your Town Surveyor says they nominate and vote all at once to avoid campaigning,” said Georgie.
“That is wise; it avoids unnecessary friction,” Lucia paused. Then as if changing the subject, she said, “Percy, ‘my Town Surveyor’ as you call him, has been a font of information: Mrs Rice is working on a monograph about old teddy bears to present to the Society, and Mr Sturges, the curate, is an expert on the history of fishing in Tilling, and Percy himself is studying the history of municipal improvements, which is surprisingly interesting. And Dr Brace has presented two papers on old medical practices that have been discredited, complete with what he called ‘quack kits’, one of which gave electric shocks and another that created static electricity,” explained Lucia. “So when I ran into Mrs Rice I told her how much I was looking forward to her presentation, and I expressed my interest in his ‘quack kits’ to Dr Brace, and I asked Mr Sturges for his opinion of my fishing float.”
“So you are campaigning, just not so loudly as Elizabeth,” said Georgie with satisfaction.
~~~~~~~~~~
As with all groups, the Tilling Historical Society had many members, but the group that attended all, or most, of the meetings was small. For this meeting, the Institute was almost full, as members who usually were too busy to attend suddenly found that they wanted to vote. Elizabeth’s sumptuous tea and the unprecedented fact that she had paid her bills two weeks in a row without argument had summoned these less-active members to the Institute.
Mrs Brace tapped her gavel and the room fell silent. “As you know, this is my last night as President. Do we have anyone who would like to become the next President? Nominations, please.”
As instructed, Major Benjy hastily stood, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, and nominated his wife. “Mrs Mapp-Flint has lived in Tilling for many years, and she has access to the deceased Captain Puffin’s unpublished notes on the Roman roads built across the marsh—a work of tremendous import to Tilling.”
“Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace. “Anyone else?”
Percy the Town Surveyor stood and nominated Mrs Emmeline Pillson. There were some blank looks, until the members recalled that Lucia’s given name is Emmeline. “She can lead us in the right direction, if anyone can. The displays for the Tower will benefit greatly from her fund-raising abilities and the Society overall will benefit from her municipal connections.”
“Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace again. “Anyone else?”
Georgie of the Gasworks had heard of the tea party given by Mrs Mapp-Flint and was afraid that she might win the election. So, unaware that he might be splitting the vote, he impulsively stood and nominated Mr George Pillson, who looked shocked, then pleased. “Seeing as Mrs Pillson is so busy with her municipal work, I don’t want to burden her further. I think Mr Pillson would be a good leader, and I’m sure that Mr and Mrs Pillson support one another’s good works,” he explained.
“Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace for a third time. “Anyone else?”
There were no more nominations. Slips of paper were distributed, and all of the members voted; Lucia voted for Georgie, and Georgie voted for himself. Georgie of the Gasworks voted for Mr Pillson and, by nudging his brother Percy, who sat beside him, and surreptitiously nodding toward Mr Pillson, he got Percy to vote for Mr Pillson also. Mr Sturges, the curate, voted for Lucia, for he thought she played piano divinely and was hoping that she would host more of her musical evenings to which he would be invited; her donation of the fishing-net float made in Tilling delighted him and he was eager to discuss it further with her. Major Benjy surprised himself by voting for Georgie (he later rationalized that “history should be kept in the hands of men, even if that man is Miss Milliner Michelangelo”). And Elizabeth Mapp-Flint voted for herself. The voting slips were gathered in, and Mrs Morrison, who was the Secretary, tallied the vote, noting with a suppressed smile that the only vote for Mrs Mapp-Flint was her own.
The extravagant tea, the luxurious orders, and the uncontested payment of bills had all worked against Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for they had reminded everyone how spendthrift and argumentative was her usual behaviour. The words of the Foreman of the Gasworks had carried much weight with the Society members, and there was a clear winner. The Secretary passed to Mrs Brace a slip of paper with the winner’s name on it.
Mrs Brace stood. “The votes are in and have been tallied. I am happy to officially pass the Presidency of the Tilling Historical Society over to Mr George Pillson!” She held out the gavel to Georgie, who rose and accepted it.
There was applause, the sound of which covered the sound of Elizabeth’s gnashing teeth. Then she remembered that she was in public, so she attempted to smile sweetly and look a bit forlorn at the same time as she joined in the applause.
Again the meeting ended with tea. Lucia was talking with Georgie of the Gasworks. “I bought one other item whilst shopping for my fishing-net float but, until I can get it professionally evaluated in London, I shall hold off on donating it. A rather nice sword. If it is from the correct period, we can say it was a smuggler’s sword, perhaps,” said Lucia brightly. “I am told that Major Benjy also donated a sword.”
“Yes; it isn’t antique, any more than the Major himself, but it will do for our armoury display,” said Georgie of the Gasworks.
“There’s a little shop in Hastings that had an interesting display of knives, if you need more for the armoury. Quite inexpensive, I think because they’re ‘second-hand’ instead of ‘antique.’ I can give you the address. But I should warn you that the shop is in a rough neighbourhood.”
Georgie Pillson joined them. “Thank you so much for nominating me. I must say I was shocked that you should want me as president, but I shall do my best.”
Percy chipped in, “It was a stroke of genius, Georgie Old-Boy,” he nodded to his brother. Turning to the newly-elected President of the Tilling Historical Society, he said, “And I’m sure you have some ideas about fund-raising for us, President Pillson.” He turned to Lucia. “How well we remember the fête in aid of the hospital that you held in the garden at Mallards House soon after you came to Tilling.”
“Yes,” said Lucia. “My Georgie and I will think of something.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Heard you lost,” Quaint Irene greeted Elizabeth then next day in the High Street.
“It is just as well. As my Benjy-boy points out to me, we have very little time to put into research of the sort that the Historical Society desires,” replied Elizabeth.
“So you lost,” said Irene, who was not to be distracted by an historical red herring.
“With my municipal duties as Councillor and Mayoress, my Benjy was complaining that I am away from husband and home far too much. He is insisting that we resign our memberships.”
“So you lost,” said Irene, who was not to be distracted by a municipal red herring, “and now you’re giving up,” she added.
Elizabeth bridled. “Not at all. Simply obeying my husband. One day when you’re married, you may understand the bonds between man and wife. Until then. . . .” Elizabeth broke off as Diva trundled up.
Diva’s arrival kept Quaint Irene, who was not to be distracted by a marital red herring, from again saying, “You lost, and now you’re giving up.” Because of her odd, birdlike walk, Diva looks like a sparrow who just caught sight of a worm, thought Elizabeth, and I’m the worm.
“So sorry you lost,” began Diva. The subtle approach was not Diva’s forte, but she was not malicious in her bluntness, which Irene certainly was.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond but Irene cut in, demanding, “Did you get Lucia’s invitation to dinner for tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” said Diva.
“I’ll see you then. Off to paint the quay. I’ll keep an eye out for a suitable sailor to share his pea coat with you,” Quaint Irene gave Diva a leering wink and walked off.
Diva looked at Elizabeth, and without bothering to explain about the pea coat, Diva asked, “You did get invited, too?”
“Yes,” affirmed Elizabeth, “but it would be inappropriate in the current circumstances for myself and my Benjy-boy to attend.”
“What circumstances?” demanded Diva. “Just be a graceful loser and come. Congratulate Mr Georgie.” Not for the first time Diva urged, “Rise above it, Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth felt she should be pressed further before giving in. “Diva, dear; Mr Georgie has no experience as the leader of an organization. My Benjy says he will have us all looking quite the guy and dressed in tights. I do not want make a travesty by dressing up as something I am not. Major Benjy is urging me to resign, and he intends to resign himself.” The first part of this was mendacious; Major Benjy was not urging her to resign, although he had spoken of resigning himself, thinking he would get two evenings each month in which he could enjoy a drink without his wife’s interference.
“Look at it this way,” countered Diva. “Free dinner. You’ll get to hear if Mr Georgie has any plans for fancy dress. I, for one, hope he has; I enjoy dressing up.”
“We all know you do, dear,” said Elizabeth acidly. “I shall see what my Benjy has to say. Perhaps we will come.”
“Or if Mr Georgie has any other plans. I’m thinking of joining if he’s planning another fête.”
“You might want to reconsider, dear. Dressing up is one thing but taking a serious interest in history is another.”
Diva suppressed a snort. “History can be made to be fun,” she said, “and if anyone can make it fun, Mr Georgie can.”
Thus the two ladies parted.
THE END
For further information, please visit http://www.ryemuseum.co.uk/index.php/2009/03/smuggling/
Text Copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford
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