Major Benjy's Indian Diary

Major Benjy’s Indian Diary

Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint was in the library at the golf club, sitting in a comfortable leather chair.  He leaned back and stretched; a whisky glass, which had long been empty, was in his right hand and in his left, a thick sheaf of papers.  Benjy looked at the earnest young man who sat in the chair across from him.  “Marvellous stuff!  You’ve made My Indian Adventures come alive!” exclaimed the Major.

“It was easy,” the young man lied.  “You tell your stories so vividly, I had no problem writing them out.”

“And you handled my—ahem—romantic past so carefully!  I’m quite pleased.”  Major Benjy passed an envelope full of bank-notes to the young man.  “Mum’s the word?”

The young man touched the side of his nose with his forefinger.  “Mum’s my motto!” he agreed, thinking, another tired old warhorse I’ve knackered here; at least the money’s good.  He continued, “You can send the manuscript directly to a publisher, or newspaper, if you like; that’s why I use a typewriter:  if anyone asks, I was your secretary and typist on this project, not your ghost-writer.”

Major Benjy thanked the young man, who departed the golf club via the steam tram and, unmoved by the quaint houses and history of the lovely town of Tilling, caught the next train out, longing for the less tedious (in his opinion) air of London.

Major Benjy sat quietly and had another whisky.  Then he roused himself, I had better present the manuscript to the wife, find out what she thinks.  And so the Major dutifully shouldered his bag of golf clubs and marched homeward to Grebe.  The reading of his manuscript had taken some hours, and Major Benjy was very late for tea.  His wife, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, began to pour cold tea into an over-sized cup, intending to hand it to her husband.  

“You’ve been spending so much time golfing these past few days,” she said acidly, “It’s a wonder that you come home at all.”

Instead of accepting the cup, Major Benjy thrust the pile of typescript toward his wife, who looked askance.  “What’s this!” she shrilled, still irritated by his lateness and further irritated by his failure to take the proffered cup.

“My diaries; pared down, of course.  My Indian Adventures,” replied Major Benjy.

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s mouth dropped open, and a look of shock came over her face, a look which Major Benjy found quite gratifying.  She sat down heavily, almost spilling the large cup of cold tea, and accepted the typescript.   Her shock was genuine.  For years now, she had assumed that his “working on my Indian diaries” was an excuse to stay up late drinking whisky.  Never, never did she expect to be holding the actual diary in her hands, much less one that had been typed so neatly.

“But how . . .” she began, but her husband cut her off.

“Read it, Girlie, then tell me what you think,” said Benjy heartily, “I won’t discuss it with you until you’ve read it all.  In its entirety.” 

Elizabeth turned over the cover page to the dedication:  “To my loving wife Elizabeth Mapp-Flint,” she read, engendering some vaguely tender sentiments in her; dear Major Benjy!

As his wife began reading, the Major went to the sideboard and poured himself a large whisky; he thought of adding soda to it, but was afraid the sound of the siphon would attract his wife’s censorious attention and anyway soda meant less whisky in the glass.  The Major crept quietly from the sitting room and retired to his study for a nap before dinner.

Over dinner Elizabeth tried to talk to Benjy about the diary, but he steadfastly refused to discuss it until she finished reading it.  “In its entirety,” he repeated, and focussed his attention on the unappetizing slab of flounder, which lay in something resembling a sauce; three-day-old flounder was standing in for real fish tonight.

Elizabeth ate quickly and returned to the sitting room.  She had stopped merely reading the diary and had begun to devour it.  Here was the gallant Major Benjy charging into battle; here was the young Major Benjy having his heart broken by the unfeeling daughter of an Army Captain; here was a tender Major Benjy caring for the daughters of his East Indian servant who died from enteric fever, winning one girl’s heart only to have the call of duty break that gentle heart; here was the brave Major Benjy campaigning from Bombay to Thana to Poona; here was the dashing Major Benjy shooting man-eating tigers that had frightened native villagers; here was “Sporting  Benjy” betting on his own shooting prowess, and winning.  Here was the dashing and romantic Major Benjamin Flint that Elizabeth Mapp had always wished she had married.

Unable to put aside her husband’s diary, Elizabeth sat up into the early morning hours.   She found My Indian Adventures thrilling and romantic.  After she finished reading, she considered the most important thing:  what would Tilling society think of Major Benjy’s adventures?  Her husband’s daring was “one in the eye” for the husband of her rival, Lucia Pillson.  Georgie Pillson was not the most masculine person.  Georgie did water-colour paintings, while Major Benjy took long marches through the dunes; Georgie played croquet, tapping the wooden ball around the garden lawn at Mallards House, while Major Benjy played golf, taking prodigious swipes at a golf ball on the links.  And when Major Benjy published My Indian Adventures everyone in Tilling would know that, while Georgie Pillson was having tea with maiden aunts, Major Benjy was fighting His Majesty’s enemies in India.

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint noticed the time with a start and, clasping the typescript of her husband’s diary to her bosom, she hurried up to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Despite her late night, Elizabeth was, as always, an early riser and, whilst her husband slept in that morning, she sat in Grebe’s sunny morning room and reconsidered.  Yes, she had been thrilled by the revelations in her husband’s diary.  But her inherent scepticism and her knowledge of her husband had changed her excitement to doubt.

She knew that all of Tilling would be as thrilled as she when they read My Indian Diary.  But Elizabeth knew that Lucia Pillson and Mr Wyse were quite capable of checking facts—Lucia’s fact-checking had destroyed Elizabeth de Map’s proud, albeit fictional, family tree, and Mr Wyse’s fact-checking, prior to her marriage to Major Benjy, had exposed her lies regarding the violent husband of the Major’s voluptuous housekeeper.  The only difference, Elizabeth thought with some bitterness, is that Lucia exposed my family tree in front of everyone, while Mr Wyse, always a gentleman, had kept silent before Tilling but indicated to me that he knows the truth.  What am I to do?

At that moment Major Benjy came into the room.  “Finished reading it, Liz?”  She nodded.  “Well, it’s not to be published until after my death.  I mean that,” he said firmly, giving Elizabeth the answer she needed.

“Yes, Benjy.  I can see how you would not want to compromise the reputation of your fellow officers—some of your stories are quite risqué.”  Elizabeth had noted the omission of any direct references to the “Pride of Poona,” an omission she felt sure was done with tender regards for her own delicate feelings.   So she felt she had to make an effort here.  “But your diary is so thrilling!  You have read out the tiger-hunting scenes before audiences before.  Perhaps some of your campaigning scenes could be read at the next Church fund-raiser.”

“Yes, yes, of course, anything for the Padre,” said Benjy, remembering that his vicar and fellow-golfer, the Reverend Kenneth Bartlett, had won three half-crowns off him in the past week; damn those bunkers!  “But the rest is just between you and me, until I die and you find a publisher.  Perhaps when you’re a widow you can make a few bob off of me,” continued Major Benjy expansively.

Elizabeth was beginning to see her husband in a different light, the honeyed light of India, not of pellucid air of Tilling; she did not have to make an effort this time—“Oh, Benjy!  We have years left together!  But it is good of you to want to look after me when you are gone.”

Major Benjy rumbled manfully, “A husband should look out for his wife!” and then he shouldered his clubs once again and marched off to lose another half-crown to the Padre.  The idea of “years together” he allowed the salt wind off the sea and the sand from the dunes to scour from his mind.

Elizabeth went outside to work in her garden; the vegetables needed more weeding than her gardener could manage alone.  She noted somewhat sadly that she had been forced to neglect her sweet flower garden in order to augment her income by selling vegetables to Twistevant, the greengrocer.  Grebe’s garden was much larger than that of her former residence, Mallards, now called Mallards House and occupied by the Pillsons, and required more attention, but she was unwilling to pay the wages of a labourer to assist; it was already such a strain on her exiguous income to have made her gardener a full-time employee instead of having him in three days a week.

As she ripped the weeds out of the ground and threw them into her garden trug, Elizabeth mulled over My Indian Adventures.  There was so much she had not known about her husband’s past, and his Indian diary had been a revelation to her.  She had noted the sweet dedication, the omission of the Pride of Poona, the delicate handling of les affaires de coeur; all, she thought once again, in deference to her feelings.  The few photographs that Major Benjy had inserted had been a surprise as well:  a younger, thinner man, with the same large moustache, wearing short pants. 

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint realized that she wanted all her friends in Tilling to read the diary and to know this Major Benjy, the soldier, rather than the current Major Benjy, the drunkard.  She would be envied for marrying the gallant Major rather than being pitied for marrying the embarrassing inebriate.  It was time to walk to Tilling for the shopping hour.  Elizabeth would not mention My Indian Adventures to anyone, and she would invite her old friend Godiva Plaistow to tea.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was hard for Elizabeth to keep quiet about the diary, as she ran into all her friends when shopping. 

Mr and Mrs Wyse’s Rolls-Royce was blocking traffic in the High Street again whilst Mrs Wyse ordered pheasant from Mr Rice, the poulterer, and crossed the street to verify that the joint she ordered from Mr Worthington, the butcher, was properly aged.  Elizabeth exchanged greetings with the Wyses and learned there had been a letter from Mr Wyse’s sister, Contessa Amelia di Faraglione, accompanied by a large package of figs from Capri.  Elizabeth knew there would be a dinner invitation awaiting her when she returned to Grebe, as the Wyses would want to share the Contessa’s bounty with their friends (as they put it) and make a vulgar display of their connection to European royalty (as Elizabeth put it).

Next Elizabeth encountered Georgie Pillson, who was sporting a new tie.  “Lovely fabric, Mr Georgie,” said Elizabeth, complimenting him; “I wish I could get something like it for my summer dress.” 

Georgie was someone who loved a good gossip as much as he loved a compliment, and in response to his query, “Any news?” Elizabeth wanted to blurt out, “My Benjy’s Indian diary is ready for publication!” but she bit her tongue.  She wanted Lucia to be the last to know, and telling Georgie would make the Pillsons the first to know.  So she merely mentioned that the Wyse’s had heard from the Contessa, and she left it at that.

Elizabeth ran into Evie Bartlett outside of Twistevant's.  Knowing that their husbands would be busy on the golf course that afternoon, Elizabeth plunged in and asked Evie to tea.  “Just a ladies’ tea, you and I and, I hope, Diva.”  Evie was happy to join them; it would give them a chance to discuss the Church’s annual baking competition.  Elizabeth thought smugly, my tea will give you more to discuss than baking!

She ducked into Twistevant’s in order to discuss arrangements for the sale of her vegetables.  Harold Twistevant was out, but Mrs Twistevant said she would have him telephone Elizabeth about the details later that afternoon.  A scenario flashed in Elizabeth’s mind:  My Indian Adventures carelessly left out on the table, Evie and Diva at tea, Elizabeth called away to the telephone on important business, leaving Evie and Diva alone with Major Benjy’s diary.  A few minutes should be plenty of time for dear, gossipy Diva to read enough of Benjy’s adventures to whet her appetite for more.

“Yes, please have Mr Twistevant telephone me this afternoon, around 4:15 or 4:30,” instructed a business-like Elizabeth.

Elizabeth then went into the grocers and chose a large box of nougat chocolate, which she refused to have wrapped, and placed prominently at the top of her shopping basket, where Diva was sure to see it.  Diva’s mouth would be watering, for she loved nougat and greedily devoured as much as she could.  Now fully armed, Elizabeth continued down the High Street to Wasters, Diva's house. 

Diva was sitting in the bay window at the front of the house, studying the newest copy of Vogue, which had been loaned to her by Mr Georgie.  “Diva dear, may I come in?” called Elizabeth. 

“Pop on up!” responded Diva, and she rapidly bundled up and hid the tatted cap she was working on, which lay beside her on the window seat; Diva wanted to once again surprise Tilling with her sartorial creation and she knew too well that Elizabeth was quick to steal her ideas; the thin yarn, an iridescent peacock blue, had been impossible to resist, and the girl at the draper’s shop had assured her that there was no more yarn of that particular colour anywhere in Tilling.

“Just came in to ask you to tea today,” said Elizabeth as Diva eyed the box of nougat chocolate.

“Happy to!” said Diva.  “Any news?”

“None at all.  Evie’s coming to tea, too, and wants to discuss the Church baking competition, so try to think of what we can feature this year.  I’ll see you later today, Diva!”  Elizabeth happily walked home to order a light lunch and a heavy tea.

~~~~~~~~~~

My Indian Adventures lay on the table next to a vase of Elizabeth’s beautiful, sweet-smelling cabbage roses, which flourished in the fecund soil of Grebe; Elizabeth eschewed the newer varieties and kept to those that had been familiar to her Grandmamma Mapp and her Aunt Caroline.  Also, she had found a “new” recipe in an antique recipe book, which she had luckily noticed and bought for a few pence at the last jumble sale, and she would be making rose-hip jelly this year.

Diva was a little early and Evie was a little late.  Diva immediately noticed the typescript, wandered over to surreptitiously see what the pile of papers was, and quickly read the title page:

My Indian Adventures

A First-Hand Diary of India

By

Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint

Below the title was a sketch of a tiger attacking an elephant; on the elephant’s back was a man shooting the tiger.  Diva’s mouth dropped open.  “Elizabeth—” she began, then realized that good manners prevented her from asking about the typescript. 

“Yes, Dear?” Elizabeth feigned unconsciousness of Diva’s discovery and rearranged the teacups.

“Roses from your garden?” Diva racked her brain for a way to ask about the diary.

“Oh, yes, some bloomed rather early this year, with the nice weather we’ve been having.  I thought I should bring a few in to share with you and Evie.  Remind me to make you each a little nosegay to take with you when you leave,” Elizabeth smiled sweetly and opened the box of chocolate.  “Nougat, Diva?” she offered, and thus, without physical contact, Elizabeth used the sticky nougat to pull a reluctant Diva away from the side table which held the roses, carefully arranged, and the diary, carelessly laid aside (or so Elizabeth had made it appear).

Then Evie arrived and tea was poured.  Diva was unable to focus on the baking contest:  Has Major Benjy finished his diary at long last?  What was in it?  Had to be more than the tiger-hunting that everyone’s heard about.  Whether to make cakes and cookies, or black bread and sea-biscuits, was no longer of primary importance.

Elizabeth looked up, “Yes, Withers?”

“It’s Mr Twistevant on the telephone, Ma’am.  He insists on talking to you,” Withers said, as her mistress had instructed her to do.

“Very well; will you ladies excuse me for a few moments?” Elizabeth left the room.

Diva quickly went to the table and picked up the diary.  “Look!” she managed to exclaim in a whisper, “Major Benjy’s diary!”

“No!” gasped Evie, who hastily put aside her teacup and hurried across the room.

“Yes!  And with photos!” said Diva, pausing to gaze at a rather blurry photograph of a younger Major Benjy in shorts, cavorting with some fellow soldiers and a couple of native females.  “I wonder if one is the Pride of Poona!” she said, forgetting that the wife of the Vicar stood close at her elbow, peering at the pages as Diva flipped quickly through them.  The wife of the Vicar, too thrilled to notice Diva’s impropriety, commented, “What curious knees he has.”

Choosing a page at random, Diva read aloud, “It was early in my time in India that I loved and lost, as young men do . . . .” She skipped a few pages and read, “‘The mutineers were shooting, and we fired back.  Murgatroyd was beside me, and took a bullet to his thigh, and dropped to the ground, writhing in pain.  There was a lot of blood.  I quickly took off my belt and fashioned a tourniquet, as a bullet hit the rim of my helmet, knocking it off my head. . . .’ ” Skipping ahead once again, she read, “‘We immediately found the champ de bataille and, after beating for some time, up jumped three tigers at once. One tiger we wounded, and we saw him steal away through the jungle of high grass towards the forest. We gave chase but he sold his life dearly.  The first attack he made was on my elephant which he pulled down by the hind leg in a very swampy nullah. I had great difficulty in keeping my seat in the howdu. . . .’ ”

Cat-footed, Elizabeth had crept back into the room unnoticed.  “Oh!” she exclaimed.  “So foolish of me to leave that laying out!  The Major will be so angry with me!  No one is supposed to know about his diary being finished.”  She pulled the pages from Diva’s hands rather rudely and handed them to Withers, “Put this in my room, please, Withers.”

Diva felt that she had been deprived of something tastier than nougat and was unable to speak.  She wanted to slap Elizabeth, as if they were children and Elizabeth had snatched a toy from her.

Evie squeaked, “So Major Benjy has finished his diary?  When will it be published?”

“He refuses to have it published until after his death,” replied Elizabeth firmly.  “There are stories in it that might besmirch the names of some of his fellow soldiers, so he will not publish it himself.”

“No!” gasped Diva and Evie in unison; this was news!

“I’m sadly afraid it is so.  It is a wonderful work, full of life, and death, and excitement.  Absolutely thrilling!” Elizabeth continued, basking in her friends’ attention, sharing in and intensifying their excitement.  “But he steadfastly refuses to publish!”

The three ladies sighed as one, and moved back to the tea table.  They took up their cups and sat silently for a moment, the baking competition was forgotten, as if devoured by a man-eating tiger.

Evie swallowed her tea suddenly with a gulp.  “Elizabeth!” Both Elizabeth and Diva looked at Evie as she hesitated.  “Perhaps he’ll let us read the diary?  Not the public, just his friends.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Diva.  “Not public.  Just friends,” she echoed fervently.

This was what Elizabeth had hoped for.  But as the words were given voice, Elizabeth realized there was a problem.  “Just friends” would mean Mr Wyse and Lucia would have to be allowed to read the diary, and that was exactly what Elizabeth desperately sought to avoid.  “I don’t know,” she said, her hesitation unfeigned now, as she considered this new problem.  “The Major does not want everyone to know—I should never have left it lying out!”  An idea sprang into Elizabeth’s mind, which as fecund as Grebe’s garden soil.  “I believe he is particularly worried that Mr Wyse might look down on some of his derring-do adventures, or that Lucia might quibble about dates and mock him, as she tends to mock us all,” said Elizabeth, thinking of that excruciating gathering at which her pretension of being descended from Norman lords had been completely destroyed by Lucia in front of all of Tilling society.

“Well,” said Evie slowly.  “Perhaps he’d like opinions other than yours.  Kenneth writes a sermon each week, so he could read the diary to make sure that it’s grammatical.  Why, he could provide a man’s eye to overlook a man’s tale!”

Since Elizabeth spent each Sunday in church with an angelic smile on her lips as she counted the grammatical errors in the Reverend Bartlett’s sermon, she was quite certain that he could contribute nothing on that front.  “What an excellent idea!” she exclaimed; “I shall ask the Major for permission!”

Diva had caught on.  “Evie and I could give him a woman’s view.  A woman not his wife’s, I mean.  We’d be happy to help!”  Evie nodded in agreement.

Now Elizabeth made a show of false reluctance, something she did well after all her years of practice.  “I don’t know.  I must ask the Major.  But I think it is an excellent idea!”  And with that item shelved, pending review, the ladies turned their attention back to baking. 

“Something citrus,” said Diva, thinking of India.  And the ladies agreed:  lemons, limes, or oranges had to be an ingredient in the baked goods.  Individual lemon cakes, thought Diva; dark chocolate cake with orange icing, thought Evie; my Benjy will be a hero, thought Elizabeth.  But she only added unimaginatively, “We can sell lemonade and limeade, as well as tea, for refreshment.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Late that afternoon, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint watched for her husband’s return to Grebe.  Seeing his approach, she ordered Withers to “bring fresh, hot tea for The Major.”  The tea was actually for herself—knowing she was going to have to persuade her husband to allow “a few of our closest friends” to read his diary, she had filled the whisky decanter and put fresh soda water in the siphon.  And for the moment, referring to her husband using the affectionate “Major Benjy” or the belittling “My Benjy-Boy” was out of the question; her husband was “The Major,” a man of martial import, a man who helped maintain, if not build, the Empire upon which the sun never set.

The British sun had nearly set when Major Benjy came into the sitting room.  His wife had plenty of time to “read and chew over” his diary, so his entry was tentative.  But his Girlie smiled at him, as if she was seeing him for the first time and was favourably impressed by what she saw; then she handed him a man-sized whisky and soda. 

“Or there is tea, if you prefer,” she added. 

He did not prefer, but only said, “No, no, I’ll drink the drink you made for me.”

“Benjy, there is something I must confess.  Foolish woman that I am, I forgot to put away your diary before Evie and Diva came for tea, and they saw it.  I am so sorry, Benjy.”  She made a poor attempt at looking sorry and winsome at the same time: really quite revolting.  She took his now-empty glass from his hand and—as if by a divine miracle—refilled it with whisky. 

With his large and newly refreshed drink in hand, of course The Major forgave her.  “Just like a woman to forget—ha, ha!—nothing to worry about!  But you say only Mrs Plaistow and Mrs Bartlett saw it?”  Both husband and wife were now playing their parts.

Elizabeth wrung her hands histrionically.  “Yes, I am afraid so.  They saw the title page and knew you had finished your diary.  And, Benjy, they want to read it!  I told them you will not publish it, but they want to read it anyway, just to give you a woman’s view of your adventures.  And Evie suggested that the Padre read it to check and make sure it is grammatically correct,” Elizabeth paused hopefully.

“I do not want it to be read by the public before publication,” said Major Benjy, who was as eager as his wife to share the diary with Tilling; unlike his wife, he was unmindful of the fact-checking which their friends might do.  “Who else would you have read it?”

“No one.”

“Not Mr Wyse, not Mr Georgie?  I think a bit of tiger-hunting would do them good.”  Here Major Benjy was reminded of an occasional dream that troubled him:  Lucia Pillson was a tigress whom he pursued through the steamy jungle and, when he caught her up, she had with her a small dog wearing a bow of ruby-coloured velvet, while behind her sat a huge and heavy English mastiff wearing a green collar decorated with a strip of tiger skin; the lap dog barked and growled, and the mastiff lunged as if to bite, both keeping him from getting off a clear shot at the tigress.  Major Benjy was unfamiliar with the works of Dr Sigmund Freud, but he had the vague notion that his dream was unworthy of an officer and a gentleman.

“No one else, Benjy. Just our closest friends,” Elizabeth said, and Benjy suddenly understood what she meant:  just the friends who will not embarrass the Mapp-Flints with impertinent questions about the facts.

“Well, Girlie, if you think it for the best—”

“I do, Benjy.  The Padre would provide a man’s eye to overlook a man’s tale,” Elizabeth appropriated that delicious phrase of Evie’s and continued, “And Evie and Diva would provide the point of view of a married lady and a widow.  I am your wife, and my fond eyes might make allowances that the public would not.  Best let the Bartletts and Diva review it, then we can put it away until—” she began to say, “until you’re dead,” but stopped just in time. 

Benjy mistook her pause for genuine emotion at the thought of his dying, rather than simple good manners engendered in his wife by his being, for the moment, “The Major.”

“Well, if you think it’s best, we’ll do it!” said The Major.  “They can read the carbon copy and we’ll keep the original here at Grebe.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning there was some argument between The Major and his wife over who got to be the first to “review the typescript.”  Elizabeth wanted to give it to Evie, but The Major held out for the Padre, on the grounds that the Padre would be doing something akin to editing, not just reading it for entertainment.  “After all, Liz, editors read the works before they’re published, not after.”  Elizabeth tried to argue some more, but in a rare act of self-assertion, The Major pointed out, “It’s my diary, after all!  The Padre shall read it first.”  

So the Major met the Padre at the golf club.  “Well, Major, has your goodwife asked you about havin’ us give your manuscript a wee ogle?” asked the Padre who, despite being from Birmingham, usually spoke spurious Elizabethan English interlarded with Scottish phrases.  The Padre already knew the answer, for he had spied the carbon-copy of the typescript that Major Benjy carried with him. 

“Yes.  If you wouldn’t mind giving it the once over, buff up the grammar, add a little spit and polish,” replied the Major.  “You can sit in the library here and read it, if you don’t mind missing our golf game today.”

“Nae, nae!  Happy to help out a friend!”  So the Padre settled in to read the memoir which had so excited his wife, while the Major took his clubs out to the driving range, happy that he had saved himself from losing another half crown.

When the Major came back into the lounge, the Padre, who read more and much faster than Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, was nearly finished with the diary.  The Padre was sceptical about the facts as depicted by Major Benjy, but he found the stories exciting and amusing; hence, he pleased his friend by referring to the tales as “a rousing adventure story based upon your life” and not as "fabrications worthy of Scheherazade." 

The Padre carried the diary back to the Vicarage so that he could finish reading it, and then pass it on to his wife.  Over luncheon, the Padre repeated that it was a “rousing adventure story” and, being a Christian, omitted to say that he suspected that the truth had been dressed up quite a bit. 

Evie cancelled choir practice so that she would have the afternoon and evening free to read “the Major’s thrilling adventures,” as the typescript was to be passed on to Diva the next morning.  Evie, although a fairly sensible woman, had little knowledge of India, and she enjoyed the ghost-writer’s elaborate, descriptive details as much as the exciting stories.  When Evie and Diva met while shopping the next day, Evie handed over the typescript and invited Diva to lunch the day after so that they could discuss Major Benjy’s diary.

“But how was it?” asked Diva, greedy for Evie’s opinion.

“Elizabeth didn’t exaggerate—it is full of thrilling adventures, and the descriptions of India and of Army life were so well done, I felt I was there with Major Benjy!  There is a tremendous energy in it—I feel I could read it again and again!” replied Evie, with great enthusiasm.

Because of Evie’s glowing review, Diva decided to forgo the rest of her shopping and hurried back to Wasters, reading as she went.  With her attention fixed upon the typescript, she failed to notice a loose cobble in the street and was saved from falling flat on her face by Georgie Pillson.  The diary fell into the street; fortunately it had been bound together or the pages would have blown all over Tilling, as there was a boisterous wind.  Georgie picked up the fallen typescript, peeking at the title page as he did so.  He had never seen Diva with anything resembling a book before, and he knew she looked at the pictures in Vogue and merely skimmed the articles.  So it was quite natural for him to be curious.

When Georgie realized that he held in his hands a typescript of Major Benjy’s Indian diaries, he was as surprised as Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had been.  But he was a gentleman born and bred, and he handed the papers back to Diva, saying only, “There doesn’t appear to be any harm done.” 

“Thank you so much for saving me from falling,” said Diva, who was trying to think of a way in which she could shake off her saviour and hurry back to Wasters.

Georgie knew he must discuss this development with Lucia and was as eager to part as was Diva.  “Happy to. . . .” he began.

“Must run,” interrupted Diva.  “Have to set up for tea.”  The fact that she ran a tea shop out of her ground floor at Wasters four afternoons a week gave her an excuse to hurry on. 

Georgie began to walk quickly up West Street to Mallards House where Lucia was practising at her piano. Georgie was not athletic and rushing home was an uphill climb.  He was quite breathless and red in the face when he burst into the garden-room.  His wife took one look and him and sprang up from her seat at the piano in alarm.  “Georgie!  Are you ill? Sit down!”

He fell into a chair, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his face.  When he got his breath back, he said, “No, not ill!  But you’ll never guess!”  Foljambe, Georgie’s maid and valet, had seen her employer rushing up the hill and stepped into the garden-room with a pitcher of lemonade (the first of the year) and two glasses.  She sat the tray on the table and awaited orders from Georgie.  “Oh, Foljambe!  Thank you so much!” he said, and in response to her query, “No, nothing else.”  Foljambe left the room and Lucia poured Georgie a glass of the cool, rejuvenating drink. 

“Drink this, Georgie,” instructed Lucia; “when you have your breath back, tell me what has you so upset.”

Georgie sipped his lemonade then sat up straight from his slouch, which was wrinkling his trousers and jacket.  “Not upset, Lucia.  But you’ll never guess,” he repeated.

“Then you must tell me, caro.”

“I saw Diva in the High Street, reading some typed papers as she hurried along.  She wasn’t paying attention and when she got quite close to me, she tripped and nearly fell.  I caught her.  The papers she was reading fell into the street.  I picked them up for her.  You’ll never guess what they are!”

“Then you must tell me, caro,” repeated his wife, whose concern had evaporated and left only impatience behind.  “Presto, presto!  Oo tell Lucia ickle news!” she cried, hiding her impatience in playfulness.

“No ickle at all,” said Georgie.  “Huge!  Molto, molto huge!”  He remembered his lemonade and took a drink, then mopped his face again.  Lucia had been impatient with him, so she must be made to wait.

Lucia knew that Georgie was, almost literally, bursting with news.  Since he chose to be peevish, she would prolong the wait; she moved back to the piano, put on her spectacles, and studied the musical score carefully.

Georgie could not wait any longer.  “Lucia!  Don’t be tarsome!”  Lucia thought he was the one being “tarsome” but forbore to say so.  Georgie continued, “Major Benjy’s finished writing his diaries!  Diva had the typescript and I saw the cover page when I picked it up for her,” he finished triumphantly.

This time it was Lucia who was as surprised as Elizabeth Mapp-Flint at the news.  “No!”

Georgie nodded emphatically.  “‘My Indian Adventures, A First-Hand Diary of India, by Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint’ was the title!”  He thought for a moment.  “But she tried to hide it from me,” he said, replaying the incident in his mind.  “She didn’t want me to see it—I wonder why?  Quite unlike her to not share such news as that.”

“Don’t worry, Georgie; we will find out.”  Lucia pressed the bell for Grosvenor, then sat down at her desk and pulled the inkstand toward her.  “Grosvenor,” she said as her maid entered, “I am having everyone dine at Mallards House tomorrow night; please ask Cook to see me so that we can discuss the menu.  Ten for dinner, or eleven if the Contessa is in Tilling.”

“Very good, Ma’am.” Grosvenor left the room as Lucia began writing invitations.

Georgie poured himself more lemonade.  “Would you like some?” he asked.  He was relieved that his wife had a plan of action, for he desperately wanted to know what was going on regarding the diary and why Diva was so unusually secretive about it.

Lucia looked up.  “Yes, I would; very kind of you!”  Thus Lucia’s impatience and Georgie’s peevishness were washed away by lemonade and dinner plans.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Lucia decided to go shopping with her husband.  As Mayor of Tilling, she was often too busy to join the shopping parade, but something was afoot and it was her Mayoral duty to find out what it was.  Would Major Benjy’s literary endeavour be a boon to Tilling or an embarrassment?

The Wyse’s Rolls Royce stood outside the chemist’s.  Georgie and Lucia walked over to it and Mr Wyse climbed out of the vehicle.  Bowing, he said, “Dear Lady!  Delighted!  We see so little of you now, with the heavy burden of municipal duties you must bear on our behalf.”  He bowed to Georgie.  “Susan has just gone in—” Mr Wyse bowed to the chemist’s shop door, “—to pick up a few items.  And we received your kind invitation to dinner in the morning post; we shall be charmed to attend.”

“The Contessa is not with you?  I was hoping that she would join us, if she is in Tilling,” said Lucia.

“Alas, her crossing has been delayed by inclement weather in France.”

“And Isabel . . . .” continued Lucia.

“She is still living amid the dunes” said Mr Wyse.  “Susan and I encourage her to rejoin society, but she is hesitant to do so.”

“I am sorry to hear that; perhaps she will come around, as children do,” commiserated Lucia, artfully ignoring the fact that Isabel Poppit, Susan Wyse’s daughter by her first marriage, was in her twenties and no longer a child.  “Oh, and I believe Major Benjy will be with us tonight and, I hope, tell us one or two of his Indian stories.  I am encouraging him to add war stories to his repertoire of tiger-hunting stories,” she added as Susan Wyse exited the shop and joined them.

Mr Wyse bowed again, but whether he bowed to Major Benjy or to India or to the tiger no one knew.  Both Mr and Mrs Wyse seemed unconcerned about Major Benjy’s stories.  After more pleasantries were exchanged, the Wyses got back into the Royce to drive ten yards down the street to the poulterer’s.

Lucia and Georgie continued down the street on foot.  “They don’t know about the diary, do you think?” asked Georgie.

“I do think you are correct, Georgie.  There was no shiftiness that would accompany hidden news when I spoke of Major Benjy and India,” Lucia affirmed.  “Oh, look, there is the Padre!  Good morning, Padre!”

“And a fair good morrow to you, Mistress Pillson, Mr Pillson,” the Padre greeted them.

“I have sent you and Mrs Bartlett an invitation to dinner tonight.  I hope you will forgive the short notice and dine with us,” said Lucia.

“A’weel, wee wifey and I will be glad to join you!”

“Oh, and I am hoping Major Benjy will be there to tell us one or two of his Indian stories.  I believe he is adding war stories to his repertoire of tiger-hunting stories.”

The Padre cleared his throat, shifted his body slightly, and looked down High Street.  Not meeting Lucia’s eye, he said, “Ach!  New tales will be welcome indeed!  Now I must be steppin’,” and he quickly marched toward the post office.

Georgie and Lucia walked further down High Street.  “He knows!” said Georgie excitedly. 

Lucia nodded. “I had hoped to run into Diva, but it seems she is nowhere to be seen,” Lucia said.

Far-sighted Georgie’s observant eyes had noticed movement down the street.  “I believe I see Elizabeth’s old green skirt going into the Heyne’s shop.  I need some embroidery silk.  Let us see if we can catch her!”

The pair walked rapidly down the street and in the drapers they found Elizabeth examining swathes of fabric which bore a striking resemblance to that of Georgie’s new tie. 

“Elizabeth!” began Lucia.  “So happy to see you!  I hope you and Major Benjy are disengaged tonight and can join us for dinner.”

“Short notice, but I think The Major and I will be able to join you,” Elizabeth smiled widely and cooed, “So sweet of you to ask us.”

“I was hoping Major Benjy would entertain us after dinner with some of his Indian tales; perhaps about the campaigns he was in?  War stories instead of tiger stories?”

Elizabeth instantly recognized danger; her eyes grew glassy and her smile grew wider.  “Why, of course I shall ask The Major to consider entertaining us,” she said, rising to Lucia’s challenge.  “Now I must hurry back to Grebe to see about luncheon.  Au reservoir!”  She kissed her hand to Lucia and left the store.  Georgie and Lucia exchanged a knowing look, and Georgie found that some thread he had ordered had come in sooner than expected.  With thread in Georgie’s market basket and much to discuss, the Pillsons returned to Mallards House. 

"She's stealing my new tie for her summer dress," said Georgie.

"Georgie, I doubt that your new tie has enough yardage to dress Elizabeth Mapp-Flint!" rejoined his wife, and both laughed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Instead of going back to Grebe, Elizabeth had fled to Diva’s house.  She stood staring at Diva.  Her exclamation, “They know!” was answered by Diva, “Who?”

“Lucia and Georgie!  Somehow they know!  They cornered me in Heyne’s and asked if The Major would entertain us with Indian stories after dinner tonight.”

Diva realized what had happened.  She did not want to tell Elizabeth about running into Mr Georgie the previous day, but she did so—there was no way out.  “I’m sorry; my fault.  I tripped yesterday and Mr Georgie kept me from falling.  I dropped the diary and he picked it up for me.  Must have seen the title and told Lucia.”

“But we—I mean, The Major—does not want the Pillsons and the Wyses to know about it.”

“Why don’t we all—me, you and Major Benjy, and the Bartletts—meet here before going to Mallards House.  I’m lunching at the Vicarage, so I’ll tell them.  Then you can tell us how to handle this,” Diva indicated the carbon-copy of the diary.  Diva was relieved that Elizabeth had not snatched the typescript from her again, as she was not quite finished reading it.  “I know you’ll think of something, if anyone can.”

Elizabeth nodded, choosing to accept Diva’s statement as an acknowledgment of her ingenuity rather than a comment on her lack of scruple.  “Till tonight, then,” she said and left.  She walked slowly back to Grebe, considering their plight.

Diva knew that although it was completely an accident, Elizabeth was quite capable of blaming her for revealing the secret.  She started to go downstairs then realized she was running out of time to read, so she called downstairs to her maid, “Janet, get out a bottle of the good sherry for this evening.”  Her maid acknowledged her, and Diva returned to her reading.

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was re-reading the original copy of her husband’s Indian diary before they packed it away, as they had agreed to do.  The Mapp-Flints had discussed that the Pillsons knew about the existence of the typescript, and the peril such knowledge carried with it.  They had decided to hide it away in a locked drawer in Elizabeth’s sewing room.  As for tonight, they would deny there was such a work and have Diva back up their denial.  Convincing the Bartletts to lie would be impossible, so they must simply refer any questions to Elizabeth for answer.  Although it rankled in Elizabeth’s mind to have to forgo giving Lucia “one in the eye” via her husband’s exploits, it must be so. 

“Girlie!  If you don’t hurry, we’ll be late,” admonished The Major.

She hastily laid aside the typescript atop the discarded Tilling Gazette and hurried to join her husband.  The diary and the newspaper slid off the chair and onto the floor.

After the Mapp-Flints left Grebe, the charwoman came in to clean for the evening.  She picked up the discarded papers, checked the flue and damper of the cold fireplace.  She then shovelled the ash and coal from the fireplace into a bucket.  She laid another fire, crumpling up the discarded papers for tinder, as Mrs Mapp-Flint had instructed her to do daily.  It was not unusual for the mistress and master to discard advertising circulars, letters and invitation cards, so she thought nothing of using the typescript as tinder.  She swept the hearth and checked to make sure the matchbox was full, so that the maid or the Mapp-Flints themselves could easily light the fire.  She then went home for the night, leaving the bucket of ashes for the gardener to use on the vegetable beds.

~~~~~~~~~~~

After their guests had left, Georgie and Lucia sat in the garden-room.  “What a bust!” exclaimed Georgie.  “We learned nothing.”

“Yes, they seem to have ‘circled their wagons’ against us,” replied his wife.  “But never fear, some day it will all come out.”

“While Elizabeth and I were being dummies, I asked her flat out about the diary.  She had the nerve to insist that it doesn’t exist!  I know what I read on the title page!”

“I do not doubt you, caro.  Diva, too, was quite obviously evasive when I mentioned it to her.  But we have done all we can do until the diary surfaces again.”

“How tarsome it is to be left out and lied to like that, Lucia!” exclaimed Georgie.

Lucia shrugged.  “There is nothing we can do about it now.  But never give up hope, Georgie!”

Georgie sighed and, indignant at being lied to and heavy-hearted at being left out, he went up to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Diva was in distress.  Upon her return to Wasters, she found that Paddy, her Irish terrier, had thoroughly devoured the carbon copy of My Indian Adventures, which had apparently caused him be sick on the floor.  After cleaning up, Diva thought sadly, first I had to admit to Elizabeth that it was my fault Mr Georgie learned that the book existed, and now I have to tell her the carbon of the book no longer exists.  But Diva’s distress was short-lived.  After all, Elizabeth had kept the original, so no harm done.

~~~~~~~~~~

The walk back to Grebe had been chilly.  Major Benjy lit a match and touched it to the paper tinder in the grate.  As the tinder burned, the fuel caught fire, warming the room.

“I must see about getting a gas heater installed,” said Elizabeth; “so much warmer.”

The Major made a vague rumbling sound in acknowledgement.  He was slightly drunk and very tired, so he retired for the night.

Elizabeth stayed in the sitting room, warming herself before the fire, and warming herself with memories of how completely she had foiled Lucia and Georgie.  She absently checked the whisky decanter to see how much her Benjy-boy had drunk while he thought she was not looking.  She shook her head.  So sad that he thought he could deceive her.  “The Major” was fading in Elizabeth’s mind, and her Benjy-boy had returned.   After she was thoroughly warm, she too went up to bed.  Leaving Withers to bank the fire and shut off the lights.

At breakfast the next morning, Major Benjy asked, “Have you finished re-reading my diary yet, so that we can lock it away?”

She had not finished it, but she had read enough.  “Yes, Benjy.  I left it in the sitting room last night.”  She bit into a piece of toast as her husband left the room.  I wonder what my rose-hip jelly will taste like, she thought.

“Liz, I can’t find it,” called her husband.

Such a big baby, Elizabeth thought.  She laid aside her toast and went into the sitting room.  “It is right there—” she pointed toward the chair upon which she had laid the diary last night.  There was nothing in the chair.  “The servants will have put it away for us,” she said and rang for Withers.

“No, Ma’am.  There were no papers in here when I shut off the lights last night,” her maid averred.  “Perhaps the char put them away.”

Unlikely, thought Elizabeth.  She turned and noticed that a few coals still burned in the grate from last night’s carefully banked fire.  Elizabeth put her hand over her eyes and moaned; she knew where My Indian Adventures was:  providing potash for the potatoes.  The charwoman was called into the room and she confirmed she had used some “trash paper,” which she found along with the discarded newspaper, to lay the fire. 

Major Benjy began to yell in Hindustani.  Elizabeth hushed him and told Withers and the char to return to work.  “Don’t worry, Benjy.  Diva has the carbon copy, so no harm done.  We can have it re-typed, if you like.  I shall get it from her when I go shopping today.” 

The Major apologized lightly, “I forgot about the carbon.  Quite right, quite right.”

“How your command of Hindustani intensifies when you are angry, dear!  I hope never again to hear such language,” she chided her husband acidly, despite the fact that she had no understanding of the native tongue of India:  her husband could have been yelling, “Bovril puts beef into you!” for all she knew. 

Although it was early, Elizabeth picked up her market basket and began the walk into Tilling.  To her surprise, she met Diva walking toward Grebe.

“Bad news,” said Diva by way of greeting.  “Paddy ate the carbon copy.  But you still have the original, so no harm—why, whatever is the matter, Elizabeth?!” 

Diva’s old friend seemed to stagger a little, her mouth open.  Elizabeth caught herself, straightened her stance, and pressed her lips together.  She found that she was unable to tell Diva of the original being burnt.  “Nothing, Diva.”  She moistened her lips.  “I just remembered I left my account book at home.”  She turned away from Diva and hurried back to Grebe, leaving a confused Diva behind her thinking, Elizabeth always pays bills on Tuesday, and today is Friday.  Diva turned back toward Tilling.  Perhaps a bill she particularly disagrees with, thought Diva, going to battle it out; I pity the tradesman, though.

As Elizabeth walked quickly back to Grebe, she consoled herself:  it was all lies anyway, Major Benjy grand-standing; I am sorry to lose the photographs, though.

She found her husband reading the Tilling Gazette.  “That was quick, Liz,” he said absently.

“I ran into Diva, who was coming out here.  She gave me the carbon, and I have locked it away in my drawer, until it’s time to publish it.”

“Good, good!” said Major Benjy heartily, and returned to his reading.

THE END

Note: I have paraphrased the tiger hunting scene from http://www.pictures-of-cats.org/stories-of-tiger-hunting.html as part of the Diary.  Photos of Major Benjy are taken from http://ageofuncertainty.blogspot.com/2011_06_01_archive.html.