Mrs Mapp-Flint
Goes to War
It seemed that
the War would go on forever. The chronic shortages of food and fabric and
the complete lack of petrol had taken their toll on the population of
Tilling. The Marchè Noir had become more and more important to those
citizens who did not mind trading shillings, pounds, guineas, and their
clothing ration coupons for the goods offered. Instead of bustling around
each morning with shopping baskets on their arms, gathering foodstuffs,
toiletries, and the latest gossip, the good people of Tilling now stood in
queues, ration books in hand as well as shopping baskets. But the spirit
of Tilling was unbroken and, if food and toiletries were scarce, gossip was
still readily available.
Because of the
shortages, Mrs Godiva Plaistow, “Diva” to her friends, had closed Ye Olde
Tea-House, her business, which she ran out of the front rooms of her house
called Wasters. Diva missed the pennies in tips, the shillings for tea
and, most of all, being able to chat with customers. While the Tea-House
was open, Diva had a variety in clientele, from Tilling society to shop-boys,
and everyone in between; thus, Diva had excellent sources of gossip, and if the
customers had talked to each other instead of to Diva, they might find that
Diva had excellent hearing. But those days were over, for now.
Diva’s old friend Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had formerly owned a house in
Tilling called Mallards but had, at considerable financial gain, sold Mallards
to Lucia Pillson. Elizabeth often liked to refer to “that dear old family
home that once was mine” with a well-practiced wistfulness when talking about
Mallards, now called Mallards House. Whenever Elizabeth did this, Diva
now had the corresponding thought of that
dear old Tea-House that once was mine, but Diva’s wistfulness was heartfelt
indeed. Without the afternoon full of people, the widowed Diva was
lonely. She looked forward to queuing as it afforded her an opportunity
to chat. She was too often disappointed when a shop ran out of food
quickly, not because she missed the food but because she missed talking.
The War
affected Diva’s friends as well. In an effort to keep spirits up, the
former Mayor of Tilling, Mrs Emmeline Pillson, called “Lucia,” had organized
free book readings, and acting of scenes from the plays of Shakespeare and
Euripides, and classical piano recitals to entertain and enlighten the
population of Tillling. She tried to stage tableaux, but after the
first, it became too difficult to find materials for costumes; Lucia eschewed
the re-use of costumes for she knew that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for one, would
make sarcastic remarks if she saw the same costumes appear for a second or
third time. This was unfortunate, as the tableaux party was
well-attended while Euripides was not. These entertainments had slowly
faded from public interest. Lucia had spoken of organizing May Day Revels
but had dropped the idea when Elizabeth sanctimoniously refused to participate,
saying pompously, “our brave soldiers are on the field of battle and I cannot
make merry until they safely return home.” Another, more important, vote
against was tendered by Lucia’s husband Georgie, who pointed out that May Day
capering would make them appear more foolish than entertaining, with an
allusion to Nero’s fiddling while Rome burned.
So on May Day,
instead of dancing ‘round the Maypole, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint stood in the queue
ahead of Susan Wyse at Worthington’s, the butcher shop, hoping to procure some
sausages. Elizabeth had in hand the few pages (due to the shortage of
paper) that comprised the Tilling Gazette,
but more interesting than the published news was finding out what Susan and her
husband Algernon Wyse were “up to.” She learned that Mr Wyse’s sister,
the Contessa Amelia Wyse-Faraglione, was visiting their ennobled cousins in
Hampshire, the Wyses of Whitchurch, but might return to Tilling for a short
visit while she searched for a suitable home in England. Amelia’s
husband, the Italian nobleman Conte Francesco “Cecco” di Faraglione was still
fighting against Fascism with the partisans in Italy, and it was a daily worry
that he might be killed. Amelia herself had narrowly managed a daring
escape to England a few months earlier and, in disgust over the behavior of
Mussolini’s Black Shirts, had hyphenated her English maiden name onto her
Italian married name and sworn never again would she speak Italian. All this
was old news to Elizabeth, who always thought of Mr Wyse’s sister as “the
Faradidleony,” a phrase she “picked up” from Diva. More promising was
Susan’s invitation for Elizabeth and her husband, Major Benjy, to dine at the
Wyse’s house in Porpoise Street tomorrow.
“You should
find the written invitation has arrived when you return home from your shopping
today,” said Susan who, like her husband, clung tightly to observing the formal
courtesies in spite of, or because of, the War.
Elizabeth got
the last of the sausages. She knew the Wyses regularly traded with the
Black Market, so she was glad that Susan got none. Elizabeth smiled and
cooed in her sweetest voice, “So sorry, Susan dear, but I must keep Major Benjy
fed or he scolds me dreadfully.”
Diva was out
walking Paddy, her rambunctious Irish terrier, on a lead. Elizabeth
waggled her hand at Diva but did not stop to talk. These days Paddy was
always on a lead, instead of running loose in the streets as Diva had allowed
him to do in the past, for Elizabeth had told Diva that some people were so
desperate for meat that they had begun eating dogs and cats. This story
was untrue, but Elizabeth did not like Paddy and Paddy did not like Elizabeth
(there had been a major contretemps over a rabbit some years ago which
Diva, Elizabeth and Paddy remembered well); so Elizabeth felt quite justified
in her “little fabrication to keep dear Diva from letting That Dog run
wild.”
Reflecting on a
sausage-less Susan and a restrained Paddy, Elizabeth happily hurried down
Military Road to her house, called Grebe, just outside of Tilling on the
marshes. Since she was expected for tea and Bridge at Mallards House that
afternoon as the guest of Lucia and Georgie Pillson, after lunch she started
running a bath, carefully measuring the depth of hot water with a ruler to
ensure she did not exceed the patriotic recommendation of five inches.
~~~~~~~~~~
Elizabeth and
Benjy arrived at Mallards House at four o’clock and found the other guests
were Diva, the Wyses, and Evie Bartlett, the wife of “Padre” Kenneth Bartlett
who was kept away from the Bridge table by parochial duties. Elizabeth’s
eyes searched each of her friends’ attire until she was certain that no one was
wearing anything new and possibly bought from the Black Market. It was
not so long ago that she, herself, had been accused of purchasing red velvet
from the Black Market to make a new dress; this was untrue, as she had made the
dress out of a pair of old curtains that she had found in a cupboard.
Even her husband had accused her of Black Market dealings, having found an
orange in a desk drawer. These accusations, and her inability to prove
her innocence, had wounded her deeply and fed her desire for revenge.
Upon entering
the Garden Room of Mallards House, Elizabeth and Benjy were greeted by Georgie
Pillson, who was famous for his miraculous food substitutions and the
imaginative ways he had with vegetables. In fact, his cooking was so good
that the leaders of the free world had chosen to hold a secret meeting at
Mallards House (referred to by Lucia and Georgie as “The Visit”), and he had
his own cooking programme on the BBC as well as a pamphlet of recipes that was
distributed across the country by the Ministry of Food. Because he was
constantly devising new recipes and food substitutions, Georgie received
foodstuffs from the Ministry. There was no shortage of food at Mallards
House, but there was frequently an over-abundance of the one vegetable, grain
or meat that Georgie was working with. Happy and well-fed were those
friends who were bidden to luncheon, tea, or dinner at Mallards House.
Georgie told
his guests that he was trying some new recipes for sandwich patè and
Swedish-style flatbread, instead of regular bread or crackers, which saved on
butter and lard. The polished mahogany table which had, in the past, held
much food and drink, was not so heavily laden as before the War, but still had
more food on it than most of the guests had become accustomed to. There
were large trays of patè on flatbread: Georgie had discovered that a cake
decorator’s tube with various specialty tips would allow the smooth patè to be
squeezed out in pretty, decorative shapes, so each of the three patès had its
own shape; this made it easy for the “consumer research team” to know which
patè was which. There were also a large number of fishcakes; fish was one
of the few things that were not rationed, although shortages were not uncommon.
And there were some small oatcakes made with local honey and served with what
Georgie genially acknowledged as “Mrs Mapp-Flint’s delicious home-made plum
jam.” Beneath each tray was a starched linen cloth, edged in lace and
beautifully embroidered by Georgie with flowers, leaves, and vines of Jacobean
design.
With the money
she made in the stock market before the War, Lucia had prudently filled her
cellar, so there was whisky for Major Benjy and sherry for Mr Wyse’s connoisseur’s
palate, as well as tea. As the ladies’ picked up their plates, Major
Benjy noticed his wife’s attention was distracted, and he quickly fixed himself
a very large whisky with very little soda.
Elizabeth stood
next to Diva as they filled their plates. “Fish! Eternally fish!”
said Elizabeth disparagingly.
“Don’t know,”
said Diva as she bit into a fishcake. Mouth full, she suddenly began to
make a moaning sound and roll her eyes.
“What’s the
matter, Diva!” exclaimed Elizabeth, with alarm. “Is it a fish bone?” she
asked hopefully: it would serve Georgie right if it was.
Diva swallowed
and took a rather large drink of sherry. “Delicious!” she exclaimed,
“Never tasted anything so good!” Turning to Georgie she said, “Going to steal
your recipe. For my tea house, when the War’s over!”
Georgie smiled
widely and said, “Thank you, Diva, thank you. So gratified that you like
them.”
As the ladies
moved away from the table, the gentlemen moved up to fill their plates, and
Georgie called for Foljambe to bring another tray of fishcakes. Major
Benjy grumbled a little at the dainty “open-faced flatbread finger sandwiches,”
as Georgie called them, but he dutifully filled his plate with fish-cakes and
piled as many of the “sandwiches” as he could on top of them. “Fishcakes
and oatcakes,” he boomed jovially, “wonderful food!” Major Benjy, who had
served in India, liked a man to be a man, and Georgie, with his feminine
embroidery and petit point, his dyed hair and toupee, and his
fastidiously fashionable suits, irritated Major Benjy. This irritation
did not extend to refusing food or drink when a guest at Mallards House, for
Major Benjy partook heartily of the food and drank as much liquor as he was
able to get when his wife was not watching him.
As usual,
Elizabeth asked in her sweetest voice if she could have the recipe and, as
usual, Georgie replied that it had to remain secret until prepared on his BBC
radio programme or published by the Ministry of Food in a pamphlet. This
exchange had become a regular part of any meal when Elizabeth was a guest at
Mallards House. The word “recipe,” once so fraught with negative
associations, had regained common usage. Elizabeth used the word more
often than was necessary, as if constantly reminding everyone of her burglary
and theft of Lucia's recipe for Lobster à la Riseholme would negate
her larcenous behavior. Even Diva,
who has a commercial interest, knows better than to ask, thought Georgie, Mapp would
be tarsome about it!
Turning away
from Elizabeth’s widest smile, Georgie went to Diva and offered her a small
bundle wrapped in a lacy napkin. “Hold out your hands,” Georgie said
teasingly. He placed the bundle in her hands and let the napkin fall
away, revealing six small pieces of nougat, Diva’s favourite candy,
which had been made by Georgie with no nougat in them at all.
After exclaiming her thanks, Diva offered the nougat to the
others. Lucia and Georgie as the hosts, Mr Wyse as the connoisseur,
and Major Benjy as the drunkard all refused with thanks. Major Benjy
emptied his large glass and positioned himself so that, when Diva offered the
all-too-rare treats to his wife, he could quickly refill his glass with
whisky. Mouse-like Evie Bartlett squeaked her thanks as she took one,
Susan Wyse demurred but took one when pressed to do so by Diva, who knew that
Susan also liked nougat, and Elizabeth smiled widely and thanked Diva
profusely for her generosity “for we all know how much you love nougat,
Diva dear.” Elizabeth was maliciously sorry that others had refused the
candies, as she would have liked to see the other guests accept, leaving only
one or, better yet, none for Diva; she must remind her Benjy-boy to take one
next time. Diva delicately placed the first of the three remaining pieces
of nougat in her mouth and savoured the taste, trying to remember how
long ago it had been since she had eaten one—years ago, surely—but Mr Georgie
was so very inventive in the kitchen and Diva was flattered that he had taken
so much trouble to please her.
After everyone
had rendered their opinions on patè (two of which were liked, the third,
banished to the kitchen for the servants) and flatbread (good enough for
war-time fare) and rendered their congratulations on the delicious fishcakes to
Mr Georgie, two tables were formed for Bridge. There were three married
couples to separate, so one table consisted of Lucia partnered with Mr Wyse
playing against Major Benjy partnered with Evie Bartlett; the other table was
Mr Georgie partnered with Elizabeth playing against Diva and Mrs Wyse.
Elizabeth knew that Diva and Mrs Wyse were not good players and expected to win
easily. She began to consider some unpleasant things to say, after the
game, about her partner and opponents (but not to them), such as, “Sweet Susan
believes that she is psychic but was completely flummoxed by Diva’s psychic
bids.”
Elizabeth
expected to take home a few shillings and pence as her winnings; however, the
cards thought otherwise, and the team of Georgie and Elizabeth was defeated in
the first rubber. Elizabeth became shrill in denying her part in their
loss, claiming that if Georgie had not bid three hearts, she would not have had
to revoke. But she lowered her voice to a hiss when Mr Wyse turned to
look at her inquiringly: he believed in civilized behavior at the card
table. Georgie shrugged and sighed, while the winners congratulated each
other.
There followed
a short break in which the Bridge players were served more weak tea and good
sherry and pre-War (the Great War, not the current one) whisky along with
another tray of the delectable fish cakes. The remaining oatcakes were
devoured and pronounced exquisite, although Elizabeth offered the opinion that
her plum jam was what had “made them so palatable.” Then the players
resumed their seats for another rubber, which Georgie and Elizabeth also lost.
~~~~~~~~~~
On the walk
back to Grebe, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint commented on how long it had been since Mr
Georgie had appeared in any new clothing and said her Bridge partner was
looking quite shabby lately. “Perhaps the work of a common cook has
coarsened him,” she said. “And it is so sad that Lucia lost all of her officers
since they have all been deployed,” she continued. By tacit agreement,
neither of the Mapp-Flint’s mentioned The Visit of the great men who had graced
the table at Mallards House a few weeks earlier. “I wonder how they
managed to procure the ingredients for that nougat,” Elizabeth wondered
aloud, not really expecting an answer from her inebriated and rather
uncommunicative husband.
“Probably from
the Black Market,” Major Benjy replied. “You know, Liz, all our friends buy
from the Black Marketeers—” he began.
“But we
shall not,” responded Elizabeth with some heat, generated mostly by her loss of
two shillings, four pence, and the memory of being falsely accused of trading
with criminals. “The Black Market, or the Marchè Noir as our
friends romantically call it, is illegal and immoral! Why, they’re taking
the food out of the mouths of babes and children! It should be stopped!”
“Not much
chance of that, Liz.”
“But you are
the Commander of the Tilling Home Guard—you could do something, surely?” said
Elizabeth. “I know you, with your vast military experience, could run
these malefactors down, since the police do not seem to be able to do
anything.”
Major Benjy
merely grunted as he tried to keep from stumbling. The Black Market
provided large amounts of whisky and beer to the Home Guard, gratis, and
Major Benjy was not interested in interfering in the Marketeers’ business and
losing his supply of free liquor.
Elizabeth was
thinking hard. She wanted to devise a plan that would stop the Wyses and
Diva and Lucia and Georgie from illegally obtaining rare and rationed items, a
plan that would glorify her husband (and by extension herself) as more than
just a mere Home Guard leader. She took Benjy’s arm in a gesture that
appeared to be more intimate than any that had passed between the two in
several months but was actually intended to keep her intoxicated husband from
lurching into the ditch.
“Just think,
Benjy, of the accolades you would receive if you exposed and had arrested the
ring of Black Marketeers that surround Tilling. Think of the
acclaim. Why, you might even be asked to the Palace or be awarded your
own MBE! Major Benjamin Flint, Member of the British Empire. That
would stop all the swanking by the Pillsons and the Wyses.”
Major Benjy’s
ego had suffered a bit lately. As a retired military man, people had
listened deferentially to his opinions on the War and how it should be
conducted, even when he suggested that the Americans should invade by way of
Finland. But Lucia and Miss Milliner Michelangelo (as he thought of
Georgie) had world leaders and army commanders to dinner one time and now Lucia
had usurped his place. Throughout their game of Bridge, the irritating
woman had frequently brought up current war issues, troop movements and
counter-movements, and implied she knew all about them before-hand, and further
implied that she knew what was planned for the future, though of course, she
couldn’t divulge any of her knowledge: it was a matter of National
Security.
“You’re right, Girlie.
But what am I to do?” asked Benjy, more to soothe Elizabeth than to agree with
her.
“Don’t worry,
Benjy-boy; I’ll think of something!” responded his intrepid wife.
~~~~~~~~~~
Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint arose early, as usual, and spent some time gazing across the marsh
while she drank her morning cup of tea. This was not the weak, effete
brew that she served guests as her part in the War Effort, but a strong cup of
India tea from her secret stash. She had always kept her kitchen well-stocked
with tea and sugar and flour and tinned meats and dried fruit and home-made
jams and preserves and other toothsome viands. There was a small room off
the kitchen at Grebe, used by the previous owner for odds-and-ends, which
Elizabeth had caused to be made into an additional larder. She kept this
larder locked, so that no one could ever again cause “my poor little Christmas
presents for needy parishioners” to come tumbling out. She frequently
took inventory to make sure that the servants had not found a way to unlock it
and steal from her. Her cook and Withers, the parlourmaid, were the only
servants Elizabeth had, other than Coplen, the gardener, who came for three
afternoons each week. These worthies were too old to work in the War
Effort. They had laboured for Elizabeth for many years now, but still she
suspected them of abusing her limited supply of sugar. She was down to
less than ninety-four pounds of sugar now, and there were spaces in her larder
that must perforce remain unfilled until rationing and shortages ceased.
She thought of herself as prudent; others would say she was hoarding.
Over her cup of
strong tea, with sugar, but without cream, she put her mind to work. In
order to “get at” the Black Market, she had to know who ran it. If she asked
Diva Plaistow, everyone in town would know within minutes that she had
abandoned her patriotic principles. If she asked Susan Wyse, the same
thing would happen, only more slowly. Evie Bartlett and the Vicar did not
have enough money to trade with the Black Market (Elizabeth assumed), and
asking Lucia or Mr Georgie was completely out of the question. Who would
tell her, and keep the fact that she had sought the information a secret, never
knowing that she intended to use the information to “break the Black Market”?
Elizabeth
always perched her invitations on her fireplace mantel-piece so that her
friends could see them. Whenever she received an invitation from the
Wyses, she said, “I shall perch you on my mantle, just like Blue-Birdie but
less messy!” referring to Susan Wyse’s late pet, which had been killed when
Susan unknowingly sat upon it. This morning the invitation to dinner from
Susan Wyse caught her eye and provided the answer she sought. Of course!
Mr Wyse! As a gentleman of refined manners, he would not betray any
confidence given him by a lady. At dinner tonight, she must find a moment
when Susan was not in the room to ask him. Thus, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint
began to develop several strategies, consider every contingency, and plan her
attack on the Black Market.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mrs
Mapp-Flint’s war began that evening. When Elizabeth and Benjy arrived at
the Wyse’s, they found no other guests. Boon was now butler and valet and
footman, as Figgis, Mr Wyse’s former valet, was now batman to a British officer
in Hove. Boon opened the door to admit them and grunted a little as Benjy
moved quickly past him and into the sitting room, hoping that if he were quick
enough, he would have a drink in hand before a disapproving Elizabeth entered. His
daily exertions on behalf of the Home Guard, he felt, entitled him to a drink
now and then. After Elizabeth had lingered in the hallway for a few
moments, Mr Wyse exited the sitting room and bowed to her as she pretended to
struggle with her coat.
“Dear Lady,” he
said, “allow me to assist you.” As they stood in the hallway, Elizabeth
quickly asked for the information she needed. Mr Wyse obliged and swore
he would not tell a soul that she had to resort to the Marchè Noir for
sugar with which to make her jam. Her initial reconnaissance complete,
Elizabeth was escorted by Mr Wyse into the sitting room, and she accepted a
glass of sweet brown sherry as she greeted Susan. So pleased was
Elizabeth with her success that she failed for some minutes to notice that
Benjy had obtained a large snifter full of aged Napoleon brandy and was
emptying it as quickly as he could.
Elizabeth
learned: Mr Williamson, a newcomer to Tilling, worked as a porter at the train
station and made arrangement for farmers to trade their goods on the Black
Market; he had flat feet and connections in London. Mr Hopkins, the
fishmonger, sometime artist’s model, and Withers’ erstwhile suitor, was
involved in transporting the illicit goods and knew where everything was hidden
throughout the town. And Mr Kelley at the Globe Inn, a pub on Military
Road where Major Benjy sometimes stopped (mistakenly thinking that Elizabeth
would not notice), was another nefarious Black Marketeer specializing in
liquor. Tilling had a long history as a base for smugglers of all sorts,
the Marchè Noir was able to utilise existing hiding holes, false walls,
basement rooms and hidden cupboards to cache their wares.
As they walked
home from the Wyse’s, Elizabeth announced to her husband that she had learned
who ran the Black Market in Tilling. Major Benjy huffily asked who did
so; because of his defiant and boyish manner, Elizabeth deduced that her
husband already knew who the miscreants were and had failed to share the
information with her. He was always defiant when he was trying to hide
something, as if challenging her to combat, which indeed he was and which
indeed he was bound to lose. Elizabeth held her peace until they were in
the sitting room at Grebe, then she began to gently confront her recalcitrant husband.
“I know that you know who these criminals are, Benjy-boy. Don’t deny it,”
she said coaxingly.
Her husband,
who was again slightly intoxicated with someone else’s liquor, stared blearily
at her, swaying slowly. “Well, yes, Liz, as Commander of Tilling Home
Guard, I know these things,” he said slowly and solemnly, “it is my
duty.” Benjy was remembering that Kelley at the Globe and Hopkins, who
had not signed the roll and ultimately refused to be Home Guard Sergeant under
Major Benjy’s direction, generously supplied Black Market beverages for the
Home Guard “dinners.”
“Then why
haven’t you stopped them?” his wife asked, becoming indignant.
“It’s like
this, Girlie: they stay out of the way of the Tilling Home Guard.
We have enough to watch for with a German invasion imminent. They’ve
installed tank traps on Tilling Hill.”
WW2 Tank traps, Rye
Hill, East Sussex by Pat Linsley 
All
Rights Reserved http://www.flickr.com/photos/cyberbia/4223019032/
All
Rights Reserved http://www.flickr.com/photos/cyberbia/4223019032/
Elizabeth
paused. “Do you really think they’ll invade?” she asked, side-tracked by
images of grey-uniformed Nazis occupying Grebe, wantonly devouring her sugar
and goose-stepping on what was left of her sweet flower garden.
“There’s no
telling, Liz. We must be vigilant! But we cannot stand vigil
against the foe if we’re out chasing our own. If you wish to stop the
Black Market, take your information to Inspector Morrison; I’m sure he’ll
appreciate the intelligence. And now, I wish to go up; I’m tired out,” said
Major Benjy. He saluted his wife and marched out of the room and up the
stairs. Once in the safety of his room, he sighed and began searching
through the wardrobe for the flask he knew was hidden inside and filled with
Black Market whisky. He took a swig and sat on the edge of his bed,
wishing he was still single and living in his old house with the voluptuous
Heather Gillespie as his housekeeper.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next
morning Elizabeth Mapp-Flint considered going to Tilling Police Station to talk
to Inspector Morrison. But the Inspector had failed to catch the
larcenous juveniles from the slums by the railway tracks who had been scrumping
her plums and apples all summer and autumn. No, it would be better if she
gathered all the evidence herself and presented it to the Inspector. That
way he would have no choice but to interrogate the suspects and confront them
with her evidence, thereby forcing them to confess their horrid crimes.
Following up on
her information from Mr Wyse, Elizabeth entered Hopkins’ fish shop that morning
and paid her bill with a wide smile. She lingered over the purchase of a
remarkably large flounder until the other customers had left the shop.
She then turned to Hopkins, her mouth opening and closing, rather like a fish,
while she tried to say the words. Finally, “Mr Hopkins, would you happen
to know where I can get sugar? I need to start buying some in order to
make my preserves and jellies. Strawberry season will soon be here and no
one in town has any sugar for sale, or if they do it’s so severely rationed
that I can’t obtain enough.”
Hopkins smiled
knowingly and winked at Mrs Mapp-Flint who, although irritated by this
forwardness, smiled her widest and tired to look hopeful. “Seeing as how
you’re Miss Withers’ employer, I may be able to put in a good word for you with
some friends of mine,” said the fishmonger. “I don’t s’pose you’d be
willing to give Miss Withers a half-day off this week; I’d like to take her to
Bexhill for an afternoon.” Hopkins was allowed petrol for the transport
of his wares.
Elizabeth was
barely able to keep from grinding her teeth in frustration. But mindful
of her need to gather the evidence that would bring the full weight of the law
to bear against these criminals, she said sweetly, “Oh, Mr Hopkins! Of course
Withers may have an afternoon off! What day would you prefer?” He
named the day. Elizabeth could not help her natural tendency to
over-dramatize. She placed her finger on her temple and said, “Let
me think, Mr Hopkins. Have I any guests expected on that day?” She
put on her pensive expression. “No, I don’t think I do. But as an
afternoon out will make Withers so very happy, if I have any engagements, I
shall cancel them just for you!” She hoped he would give her the sugar
soon so that she could cancel Withers’ half-day off the morning that the outing
was to occur.
Hopkins nodded
sagely; he had endured too many vituperative arguments with Mrs Mapp-Flint
regarding her bill and the quality of his fish to believe that she was truly
pleased. He thought he would “hold out.” He touched his forehead
where his cap would be if he were wearing one. This gesture reminded
Elizabeth of the time she encountered him in the studio of local artist
“Quaint” Irene Coles. His work as an artist’s model had left him clothed
only in an abbreviated swimming suit. The lack of clothing and the
plethora of strong male flesh had totally unsettled Miss Mapp (as she was
then). She had retreated to the safety of the street as quickly as
possible. Fortunately, Quaint Irene was away hauling coal barges in the
Midlands so no repeat of this embarrassing episode was imminent.
“Well, Ma’am,”
Hopkins said, wondering why Mrs Mapp-Flint had so suddenly become flushed,
“I’ll speak to my friends and get back to you. It may not be this week,
though. Sugar is hard to come by these days.” He was not going to
give her the proscribed sugar until after he had his afternoon out with
Withers.
“Of course, Mr
Hopkins. Please let me have a nice bit of sole for the Major’s
dinner.” She paused; she intended to order flounder for the servants, but
Hopkins affection for Withers might cause him to take offense. She delicately
moistened her lips and plunged on: “And some extra for the kitchen, too; just
Withers and Cook, now, with this terrible War on.” Sole was more costly
than flounder, but if she was to ensnare the amoral Hopkins in her web of
justice, she would have to invest in disarming and entangling him. Sole
(though woefully expensive) along with Withers may be the lures she
needed. Perhaps she might get a reward for catching the criminals and recoup
her shillings. With her sole in her market basket, she trudged
home.
Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint had intended to visit the fishmonger’s shop again soon, but she
realized that it would be best to wait until after Withers’ afternoon
out. Fear of scaring off her prey struggled with her desire to catch the
Black Marketeers quickly and to cut off the supply of comestibles to the Wyses
and Diva and, most of all, to Mallards House.
~~~~~~~~~~
With a letter
in her hand, the Duchess of Whitby sat in her country house, which had been
converted to a hospital except for a small wing where the Duchess lived with a
few servants. The German blockade had become ineffective due to convoys
from America, so some relief was trickling into Britain. With that
trickle were several large crates which had been shipped from Lady Adele Brixton
in Newport, Rhode Island, to Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, some time ago but only
now arrived. They contained food, toiletries, and some bolts of
fabric. Marcia had not had a chance to sort through it all, for she had
chosen to read the accompanying letter first, hungry for news of her friend
Adele. She read most of the letter with great enjoyment, but then her
pleasure began to turn to irritation. Adele was an American who preferred
to live in England and was married to the Englishman Lord Brixton, who
preferred to live in America, so that they never saw one another; this
arrangement suited both of the parties involved. Just before the War
began, Lord Brixton decided to come back to England to visit an ailing
relative. This had necessitated that Adele pack and sail for
America. And then the War began, and Adele was “stuck” in America and her
husband was “stuck” in Britain for the duration.
“The only good
part is that I can send packages to my friends, although God knows when they’ll
arrive,” wrote Adele. Further down in her letter was the cause of
Marcia’s irritation: “You’re going to hate me for this, so prepare
yourself, Marcia, as I have to ask a great favour of you. I know you
remember Lucia Lucas, now Lucia Pillson, from a season in London some years
ago; well, one of the crates you receive from me is for Lucia, and I want you
to take its contents to her.”
Damn! thought Marcia. She continued reading, “Lucia has been widowed,
moved to Tilling and remarried since the London season when she mercilessly
pursued you with invitations to her house in Brompton Square—but you
appreciated neither the invitations nor what a splendid snob that Lucia
is. I want you to see that the goods in the crate marked ‘Lucia Pillson
care of the Duchess of Whitby’ reach their destination.”
Marcia had been
feeling quite happy at hearing from her friend, but now she again
half-heartedly damned Adele Brixton. Marcia decided to combine business
with displeasure and visit two working farms she had near Tilling, neither of
which had accommodations for her; she would stay with Lucia in Tilling and
deliver the goods. She had been taught from childhood to never put off any
odious duty, but to get it done as soon as possible, so instead of laying aside
the letter and sorting through the gifts Adele had sent, she picked up her
telephone and had the operator placed a trunk call to Lucia Pillson of Tilling.
~~~~~~~~~~
The day after
Elizabeth’s fell visit to Hopkins, Lucia Pillson, chatelaine of Mallards
House, was in the garden-room practicing the treble of some Chopin ètudes,
arranged for four hands. Her husband was out, queuing for whatever food
he could find and getting the day’s gossip. Lucia had the soft pedal
down, as she did not want to risk Georgie hearing her practicing on the sly if
he came home via Church Square rather than up West Street where she would see
his approach through the window.
Foljambe
entered, “A trunk call, Madam. A lady called Marcia Whitby, who says she
is a friend of yours from London.”
Lucia jumped up
in surprise. The Duchess of Whitby! She hurried to her office at
the front of the house, where she picked up the telephone. “Yes?” she
said into the mouthpiece, “this is Lucia Pillson.” She appeared calm but
her mind was working furiously.
“Lucia, this is
Marcia Whitby. I must to come down to Tilling the day after tomorrow to
visit my farms in the area and I have a crate of gifts sent to you, care of
myself, by Adele Brixton in America. I know it is short notice, but I was
wondering if I could stay with you. Can you put me up for one or two
nights?”
“Why, of
course, Marcia. Delighted! We shall talk over old times and you can
catch me up on the latest news from London,” responded Lucia.
“Thank you so
much!” Marcia tried to sound excited and, in order to hasten the end of
the telephone call, omitted to mention that she had not been in London in some
months. “I shall arrive on the morning train and send your
gifts and my suitcases to you from the station, but I shan’t be able to
join you until teatime. Please invite some of your friends to have dinner
with us; I should love to meet them,” enthused Marcia, thinking, if more people
were around, the less time she might have to spend with Lucia.
“They’ll be
thrilled, I’m sure,” said Lucia warmly. “And my husband will cook
something special in your honor.”
“Yes, Olga
Bracely said he is the man doing those marvellous cooking programmes that
I listen to on BBC radio. I look forward to seeing you!”
said Marcia and rang off quickly before she lost her nerve.
Before Lucia
had moved to Tilling, she had been married for twenty-five harmonious years to
Philip “Peppino” Lucas, a barrister. During the last years of the
marriage, before she had been widowed, Peppino and Lucia had lived in the
village of Riseholme in the Cotswolds. But they had spent a season in
London, where Lucia had acquired a wide array of friends and enemies.
Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, fell into the latter group, for she thought Lucia to
be a snob (she was) and a “joke” (she was not). The Duchess had
refused the invitations which Lucia had rained upon her and, except for one
time, in a memorable moment of weakness never to be repeated, had Marcia
refused to invite Lucia to her home. But war is a great equalizer, and here
was Marcia requesting the hospitality she had once so keenly sought to
avoid. Lucia did not hold grudges,
especially against Duchesses. She immediately sat down and began writing
invitations to dinner to all her friends in Tilling. For the second time,
they would be dining with a Duchess at Mallards House.
Georgie arrived
home and found his wife at her desk finishing the last invitation. “Georgino
mio, wonderful news! Darling Marcia, the Duchess of Whitby, a dear
friend from my season in London, is coming to stay the day after tomorrow for
one or two nights. Will you be able to cook something magnificent for
her? I’ve invited everyone to dinner.”
Georgie
considered. His last Duchess had become enamoured of his handsome Van
Dyke beard, which led to unwanted and embarrassing advances toward him by
Poppy, Duchess of Sheffield; his consternation thereat had caused his beloved
Olga to hoot with laughter.
Lucia
interpreted his hesitation correctly. “Dear Olga suggested she stay with
us; they’re great friends,” said Lucia, using her unhappy knowledge of
Georgie’s affection for Olga to influence him.
Georgie was
equal to his wife’s jealously where Olga was concerned, and in light of Lucia’s
coaxing, he rejoined, “Oh! Of course, if she’s a friend of Olga’s, I
shall be delighted! I will be in the kitchen discussing the menu with
Foljambe and Cook.” He hurried from the room, a teasing smile breaking
out on his face as he left the room. Serve
Lucia right! he thought, although he was distinctly flattered to be an
object of jealousy. But then he felt a little guilty and decided to make
dinner as wonderful as he could in order to atone for his behavior. The
cook, Mrs Urquhardt, had been with them only a few weeks; she was an older
Scottish lady, and though diminutive of stature, she was possessed of a fiery
temper. She found in Georgie a kindred spirit where food was concerned
and in Lucia an employer worthy of her best work: Georgie knew the meal
would be magnificent.
~~~~~~~~~~
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint
accepted Lucia’s invitation with a smile on her face, which turned to bile in
her stomach when, upon visiting High Street, she found that the invitations
were universal and all their friends would be there. “I’m surprised
she didn’t invite the curate,” Elizabeth said sourly to Diva. But in
general, expectations were high, as everyone knew that Mr Georgie had been in
receipt of several crates of food from the Ministry.
One of
Elizabeth’s errands on the day before Lucia’s dinner was a return to Hopkins’
fish shop, for Withers had come back from Bexhill quite late the night
before and reported that she “had a pleasant day, thank you, Madam.”
Once again she
waited until the shop was empty of customers and then approached Hopkins.
“How-de-do, Mr Hopkins. My Withers said she had quite a pleasant
afternoon in Bexhill with you yesterday. So kind of you to take her; we
have so little entertainment lately,” she said with her most synchophantish
smile.
“Indeed, Ma’am,
I had quite a time myself,” he responded in kind, then stood gazing at her,
thinking, Let her ask me for the sugar, I’m not going to offer the old witch anything!
Hesitantly,
Elizabeth began, “About the sugar. I inquired last week . . . .” she
trailed off.
“Ah, yes,
Ma’am. I’ve talked to my friend at the train station, who says that sugar
will be delivered by a lady coming in tomorrow on the morning train, and so I
should have it for you tomorrow afternoon.”
Elizabeth
beamed. Here, almost within her grasp, was the evidence she needed to
destroy Tilling’s Black Market. “Very well, then, Mr Hopkins, I shall
expect delivery.”
Hopkins
scratched his head. “Well, Ma’am, it doesn’t work like that. You’ll
need to bring the money to me here tomorrow after the train comes in, and to
carry the sugar away with you. I can’t have my boy delivering anything
but fish, you understand.”
“Completely,”
said Elizabeth, her smile becoming a rigourous grimace. “Then I shall
call for it tomorrow afternoon. Thank you so much!”
She left the
shop quite satisfied. Now she had completed her initial foray and
tomorrow her victory would be complete. She could produce her story and
her evidence before Inspector Morrison and the Black Market in Tilling would be
utterly destroyed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The afternoon
before leaving for Tilling, Marcia had three large boxes intended for the
residents of her farms transported to the train station, along
with the four even larger boxes for Lucia. The crate addressed to Lucia
had been opened, for it was too large for one woman to manage, and its
contents repacked into four boxes.
Very early the
next morning, Marcia rode to the train station on “the contraption,” which was
a tricycle with a very large metal basket welded on the back; it was used to
haul packages and medical supplies from the station to Whitby Old House, or vice
versa. Hitched behind the contraption was a light-weight trailer on
two wheels carrying Marcia’s luggage. Once she achieved the station,
Marcia had the contraption and its trailer loaded into the freight car of the
train with her boxes. She boarded, carrying her own suitcases, and she
was soon on her way to Tilling.
©
Copyright Simon
Carey and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons
Licence
Upon arrival at
the Tilling station, Marcia went down to the freight car to oversee the
unloading of her contraption and the boxes, and the loading of the farm boxes
into the basket and the trailer of the contraption. She spoke pleasantly
to the porter and paid him to transport the suitcases and Lucia’s four boxes to
Mallards House.
“Make sure that
Mr and Mrs Pillson know to open the boxes without waiting for me,” said
Marcia. She noticed a rather dowdy, heavy-set woman watching her
suspiciously, but Marcia ignored this, thinking it was the porter calling her
“Your Grace” which attracted the woman’s attention. As Marcia rode off,
Mr Williamson, the porter, was approached by another passenger, a thin,
poorly-dressed female who pointed out some boxes to him which he
unloaded. The heavy-set woman, looking after Marcia, missed the furtive
hand-to-hand exchange of rolled up currency notes. The female re-boarded
the train, leaving the boxes with Williamson. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for
it was she who was suspiciously watching, had taken literally Hopkins’ saying
“a lady” delivered the goods. And Elizabeth was unable to eavesdrop over
the sound of the hissing train and never heard Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, being
called “Your Grace.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Georgie and
Lucia were home when the four boxes and the luggage arrived. The boxes
were far too large and too heavy to manouver into the garden-room, so they had
the delivery men put the boxes in the sitting room off the entry hall.
The first box contained toiletries: tooth powder, simple medicines of the sort
that had been found in every bathroom prior to the War, soaps for washing of
clothing and body and hair, bluing for laundry, eyelash blacking and powder,
and, quite marvellously, six pair of ladies’ silk stockings. Lucia
immediately offered a pair each to Foljambe and to the cook, who were surprised
and pleased with the gift.
In the second
box there were tins of California peaches, pears and apricots in heavy syrup,
pie filling of cherry and blackberry and rhubarb, Pacific salmon and tiny
smoked oysters in oil. There were large tins of beef and pork, and a
tub-full of heavily-larded salt pork. There were grapefruit and Mandarin
oranges from Florida tinned in their own juices. “Makes my mouth water!”
said Georgie, laughing.
Both Georgie
and Mrs Urquhardt, the cook, let out little squeals of delight when they found
tinned milk, baking powder and baking soda, and, thrillingly, twelve tins of
cocoa powder for baking in the third box. Georgie and the cook looked at
each other and simultaneously exclaimed, “Chocolate cake!” then burst into
peals of bright laughter. There were also a half-dozen large bars of dark
chocolate. There were a great many restaurant-sized packages of beef and
chicken bouillon, which Lucia thought excessive, but Georgie and Mrs Urquhardt
knew was not.
In a smaller
box within the third box there were packets of dried eggs and of seeds for
carrots, onions and beetroot, and a string of garlic whose cloves could be
planted or used for food, and dried herbs and spices in little tins.
There were, carefully padded with newspaper, jars of artichoke hearts. “How
wonderful!” said Lucia.
Foljambe
straightened the crumpled newspapers, the San Francisco Chronicle and
the New York Times, so that they could be read, for the paper shortage had
kept news uncertain of publication in England and even old news was
welcome. “News from a different, American perspective shall be quite
interesting to me,” said Lucia, drawling excessively, in her best voice, as
befitted the former Mayor of Tilling (thrice) and hostess of statesmen.
The last and
heaviest box contained bags of flour, of dried peas and beans, of roasted
coffee beans, and “bags and bags of sugar, and pounds and pounds of tea!
India and China!” said Georgie happily.
Georgie and Mrs
Urquhardt began augmenting the existing menu for dinner, and talking of saving
and using the oil from the fish and the syrup from the fruit to flavour other
dishes. Dessert was added to dinner. Then all pitched in to move
the goods down to the kitchen.
~~~~~~~~~~
Upon returning
to Tilling from the first of her farms, Marcia rode down High Street and
realized that she was lost. She stopped in front of a fish shop and
inquired as to directions to Mallards House. “Right at the top of the
hill, Ma’am, on West Street,” she was told. She noticed the same
suspicious woman from the train station watching her from a nearby
corner.
Marcia
remounted the contraption and attempted to ride on, only to be stopped by a
police constable in uniform. “I’m afraid I must ask you to come with
me, Ma’am,” he said.
“And why is
that?” Marcia asked.
“There’s been a
complaint made against you, a charge of trafficking in Black Market goods,”
stated the young constable calmly.
Marcia’s mouth
dropped open. “But I never—” she began.
The
young man cut her off, “If you’ll just come along with me to the station,
we can sort this all out.”
The
flabbergasted Duchess protested, “This is a mistake—”
Once again the
young constable cut her off, becoming gruff, “Come along to the station,” he
said. Then more gently, “Just so we can sort this out, Ma’am.”
And so Marcia,
escorted by the uniformed constable who pushed the contraption for her,
walked to Tilling Police Station. When Marcia entered, the large woman,
whom she had seen at the station and in the street, pointed at Marcia and
exclaimed, “That is her!” Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had forgotten her grammar
in her excitement. “She’s the link to Williamson all the Black Marketing
going on in Tilling!” Elizabeth shrilled, with a note of triumph ringing
in her proclamation.
A man, not in
uniform, laid his pipe in the tray on his desk. “Now, now, Mrs
Mapp-Flint, you’ve given your evidence. Please leave us to finish up with
this lady,” he said with calm authority. Elizabeth opened her mouth to
protest, but caught the stern look from the man, who said firmly, “Police
business, Mrs Mapp-Flint, so I must ask you to leave.” She shut her
mouth, turned on her heel, and came as close to “flouncing out” as a woman of
her age and girth could do.
The man turned
calmly to Marcia, “I’m Inspector Morrison, Ma’am,” he said. He had
already taken the measure of the accused, and saw a woman in clothing that was
designer-made and well-tailored, if a few years old. Inspector Morrison
knew this was a woman of quality, “but we’ll just see how she behaves,” he
thought.
“That lady, Mrs
Mapp-Flint, has filed a complaint stating that you delivered several boxes to
Mr Williamson at the station, and that those boxes were full of goods meant for
the Black Market,” the Inspector said, answering Marcia’s unasked
question. “But first, may I see your identification?”
Marcia produced
her driving licence, her passport, and her ration book from her purse.
The Inspector examined the documents carefully and calmly, and then returned
them to Marcia, saying, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“This is a
terrible mistake,” began Marcia, “I was delivering some packages from a friend
in America to Mr and Mrs Pillson. The boxes I took with me from the
station were for my tenants at Aldcroft Farm, on the road from Tilling to
Winchelsea. Then I rode back here and your constable stopped
me. I’m to stay tonight at the Pillsons,” she paused. “I had
the porter at the station deliver four boxes to Mallards house . . . those were
for the Pillsons . . . things from America,” she faltered.
“Thank you,
Your Grace,” Inspector Morrison said again. “I’ve interviewed
Williamson,” he continued, “and learned that you are not involved in any of the
alleged criminal actions. If you’ll just read and sign this paper, you
are free to go.”
“Thank you,”
said the Duchess with a sigh of relief.
Inspector
Morrison cleared his throat, “There is the matter of the false accusation, Your
Grace, if you wish to file a complaint of your own. . . .”
“No,” said
Marcia, “I just want this sorry episode to be done.”
“Very good,
Your Grace, and most kind.” Inspector
Morrison did not display his disappointment that the Duchess of Whitby did not
want to pursue charges against Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. He stood at the
window considering the kindness and responsible behavior of the lady as he
watched Marcia mount the contraption and ride away.
~~~~~~~~~~
When she
arrived, late, at Mallards House, she was greeted by Lucia and introduced to
Georgie Pillson. Marcia told Georgie how much she enjoyed his radio
programme, especially learning new ways to cook vegetables. Georgie
blushed and thanked her. Then she said, “I had quite an adventure getting
here. A woman told the constabulary that I was delivering goods to a
Black Marketeer! Fortunately, the Inspector cleared it all up so quickly.
But that is why I’m so late.”
“You poor
dear!” exclaimed Georgie with feeling, his eyes widening in surprised horror,
“I should be quite terrified to be plucked off the street by police like
that! Just like the Black Shirts!” he stopped, wondering to himself, Is it the Black Shirts or the Brown Shirts
now? Oh, well, she knows what I mean.
“All’s well
that ends well,” said Marcia. She was escorted to the garden-room, which
she admired, praising Lucia’s decorating.
Tea was brought
in, with sugar and canned milk, and Marcia at last allowed herself relax a
little, “This is quite nice!” said Marcia, “it has been a long time
since anyone has offered me sugar and milk with my tea!”
Lucia
apologized for not having any lemon to offer, “for I remember that you prefer
it,” she said. Marcia actually preferred milk and sugar to lemon but
realized that Lucia was showing off for her husband; this was not an uncommon
occurrence for the Duchess, and she had learned to let such statements pass
without comment or correction. Lucia could not complain that Marcia was not
trying to be kind, and so they spoke on general subjects until Marcia had
finished her tea.
“Dear Duchess
Marcia!” Lucia exclaimed, “What a terrible time you have had in our dear little
Tilling! I’m so glad my Inspector was able to clear it up swiftly.
And so sweet of you to bring all these things to us! But you have had a
long and grueling journey. What a bicyclist you must be!” Lucia gabbled,
“Let me show you your room so you can rest. Foljambe will come and help
you dress for dinner in an hour.” Marcia began to protest that she no
longer needed help from a ladies’ maid, but stopped: it would be nice to
be attended to once again, for one or two evenings.
When Lucia had
sent out her invitations to her friends in Tilling she did not mention they
were to meet the Duchess of Whitby, as she had found the secrecy that had
shrouded the preparations for “The Visit” had given it a glamour which she
wanted to recreate. She did inscribe “Hitum” on the card, indicating that
all should wear their best evening dress. Lucia’s husband and household
had agreed to keep the Duchess’s visit a secret.
The host and
hostess greeted their guests in the sitting room, and Georgie prepared
cocktails. Mrs Diva Plaistow was first to arrive, wearing her green
marocaine dress, the material for which she had purchased from the Marchè Noir
and which, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint said to her husband, “makes dear Diva’s rotund
form look like a gaudy bauble from a Christmas tree.” The Padre and Evie Bartlett arrived just
after Diva, dressed as neatly and as plainly as church mice should be.
The black suit and collar of the Padre saved him the expense of dinner suits
and, as the vicar’s wife, Evie was expected to avoid ostentation in her dress.
The three had
just been served cocktails when the Wyses arrived. Susan Wyse was wearing
a lovely dress of blue lace, and Algernon Wyse had on his silk cummerbund and
new black velveteen dinner jacket, all had been purchased via the Marchè
Noir.
Last to arrive
were Major Benjy and Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. Major Benjy was wearing the
same old evening suit, now quite shiny at the elbows and in the seat from all
the long years of wear. Elizabeth was wearing a red velvet creation of
her own, which she made from an old pair of curtains, but which was readily
assumed by Tilling to be a product of Black Market trading.
Lucia said
hello all around. Georgie handed Elizabeth a cocktail and Major Benjy a
large whisky with a little soda in it. Georgie noticed how shiny the elbows
of the Major’s suit were. Well, he
does ‘bend the elbow’ a lot, so it’s no wonder they’re almost worn through,
thought Georgie, What a lush!
Then Foljambe
opened the sitting room door and announced rather loudly, “The Duchess of
Whitby,” and Marcia entered, wearing a beautiful cream-coulored dress of
fringed chiffon, the bias-cut showing that it was created at Maison Vionnet.
The famous Whitby pearls were clasped around her slender neck.
“Allow me
present . . . .” began Lucia, snubbing Elizabeth and turning toward the
Wyses.
But before she
could get any further, Marcia pointed to Elizabeth Mapp-Flint and exclaimed,
“It was she! She told the police that I was a Black Marketeer! She
is the reason I was dragged through the streets by that young constable!
I was treated as a common criminal!” Marcia found this loud ejaculation
to be quite unlike herself and was surprised at how incensed she had become
upon seeing Elizabeth. The stresses inherent in the enforced and
heavily-laden visit to Lucia, as well as the enforced and public visit to the
police station, acted upon her. Marcia suddenly thought that seeing more
of Elizabeth would render the evening intolerable; it was bad enough having to
“make nice,” as her old nurse called it, with Lucia.
At the Duchess
of Whitby’s exclamation, all in the room gaped in surprise. Mr Wyse was
frozen in mid-bow. Georgie stood stock-still, the cocktail he had made
for the Duchess in his hand, unsure of how to respond. The Padre, always
the peacemaker, was struggling for words. Then Evie Bartlett squeaked a
little, breaking the spell.
Lucia knew
exactly what to say, “Dear Elizabeth! I’m quite certain you didn’t
mean to traumatize the Duchess in that manner. . . .” she prompted,
expecting Elizabeth to offer an apology and rather hoping that Elizabeth
would offer to leave.
Instead,
Elizabeth became shrilly defensive, “I was trying to stop the horrible,
unpatriotic crime of Black Marketeering in Tilling! Everyone in this room
except me has engaged in that unhealthy and criminal practice!” exclaimed
Elizabeth, not sparing the Padre. “I saw that woman—” she pointed at
Marcia “—at the train station giving boxes to that porter! I thought she
was his Link to the Underworld!”
The Duchess
suffered a sudden revolution in feeling that left her rather giddy, and she
began to laugh, “’Link to the Underworld’! Never before have I been
called that!”
Tilling society
stood silent, looking at Elizabeth, whose face reddened in self-righteous
fury. Tilling took itself seriously, and the most insulting thing an
outsider could do was to not take Tilling seriously. Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint thought herself to be Tilling, believing she was queen of
Tilling society, never mind Lucia’s claim to the crown. And here was
this, this—Duchess!—laughing at her, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, thrice Mayoress of
Tilling! Elizabeth’s lips tightened to whiteness. The civilized
thought of apologising never entered her head. “I did not come here to
be accused and mocked!” she said severely.
“Nor did I,”
stated Marcia, who had regained firm control of herself. She looked
Elizabeth straight in the eye without wavering. “I hadn’t been in Tilling
but for a few minutes, and you accused me of criminal behavior,” she calmly
stated. “You had me dragged off the street by a constable,” Marcia continued
without mercy. “I shall ask the Inspector to file a charge against you of
making a false complaint,” continued the Duchess, who had no intention of doing
so, “and I shall see that you are prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
Elizabeth
gasped. She had envisioned herself esteemed for her daring in breaking up
a criminal enterprise, and here was this woman threatening Elizabeth with
criminal charges of her own. She touched Major Benjy’s arm, this time to
steady herself, “Come, Benjy, we are not wanted here!” She tried to sweep
regally out of the room, but stumbled a little over the edge of Lucia’s Persian
carpet, ruining the effect. For once, Benjy did not quarrel and went
quietly with his wife.
“Foljambe,”
said Georgie, “we shall be two fewer for dinner.” Foljambe hastened to
the dining room to make the necessary changes in the laying of the table.
Marcia realized
that her first impression was not what was expected of a Duchess; hence, she
set about charming Tilling society. She remembered Adele Brixton
asking her, what are Duchesses for but to give pleasure to snobs? Snobs
or no, the Duchess of Whitby determined to give pleasure to all for the
remainder of this evening.
“Now, dear
Georgie, is that drink for me?” asked the Duchess. Georgie was so
relieved that he did not realize till later that the Duchess of Whitby had
called him by his first name in front of almost all of Tilling society.
Most gratifying.
“Of course it
is, Your Grace,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, but you
must call me ‘Duchess Marcia,’ just as darling Lucia does,” said Marcia.
Lucia smiled
and began again, “Allow me to present . . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~
A few minutes
after the introductions had been made, Foljambe announced dinner. Georgie
offered his arm to Marcia and escorted her into the dining room; Lucia was
escorted by Mr Wyse, the Padre escorted Susan, and Diva and Evie followed. Marcia began her atonement by praising each
of Georgie’s offerings as they appeared and wondered aloud at the substitutions
he had created. Carrot soup was first. “Butter and cream?” Marcia
asked, and Georgie said neither butter nor cream had been used in the dish.
Over sole with
a thick lemon sauce, made with “just a pinch of dried zest,” Marcia discussed
with Evie Bartlett the Girl Guides and how immensely important were the skills
learned therein. Evie, who was the local Troop leader, was
impressed with the Duchess’s grasp of the problems facing Girl Guides and at
her suggestions of certain money-raising activities for them.
During the main
entrée of pork tenderloin with marjoram, paprika and fresh parsnips, she
conversed with Mr Wyse, seated on her right, about his sister the Contessa and
the current sad times for European nobility in general.
Then the Duchess and Mr Wyse praised
Lucia’s dinner wines, which they agreed were wonderful vintage nectars of
complex bouquet, with ethereal and layered flavours.
Over dessert of
rich chocolate soufflé, the Duchess talked to the table in general of
Olga and of London. It had been a long time since a dessert this
rich had been served at any table in Tilling. Georgie told everyone that
it had been made with “Lady Brixton’s cocoa, which Duchess Marcia brought to
us.”
“Sumptuous!”
said Diva, and after she swallowed a second bite of soufflé,
“Scrumptious!” was her appraisal of the dessert; she followed that with
“Superlative!” just to make sure everyone knew her opinion.
The party moved
into the garden-room, the men joining the ladies after their glass of port,
which was happily abbreviated due to Major Benjy’s absence. Lucia had
planned on un po’ di musica after dinner, but the departure of the
Mapp-Flints, or “the flight of Elizabeth from the Long Arm of the Law” as Evie,
a reader of hardboiled detective fiction, later called it, had left six guests
and two hosts at Mallards House, just enough people to make two tables for Bridge.
“Dear Marcia,
since we are eight, would you prefer to play Bridge, or to rest after you
cycling exertions and trauma whilst I play some soothing musica?” asked
Lucia hopefully.
Marcia was
canny in gauging the mood of a group of people and opted for Bridge,
apologising for disappointing Lucia and asking if they could have “some of your
delightful music” tomorrow evening instead.
The Padre was
partnered with the Duchess and they played against the team of Georgie and
Diva. Marcia continued to work her charm. The Duchess learned of
Diva’s tea-shop and commiserated with her on its closure.
“Ach, t’was a
great loss for us all, for many’s the happy tea an’ Bridge I had a’ Mistress
Plaistow’s establishment,” said the Padre, who always spoke Elizabethan English
mixed with Scottish, although he was from Birmingham.
The Bridge
players then entered into a discussion of food served at tea, and Marcia
describe some teas she had eaten while in London, and noticing the Padre’s
Scottish proclivities, Marcia added a description of a delightful tea which she
had been served at Stobhall in Perthshire one November before the War
began. Her descriptions of food and the ways in which it is presented
added valuable information to Diva’s and Georgie’s culinary insight and fed
their imaginations. Marcia praised the originality of Diva’s sardine
tartlet when that savoury was described to her, and said how much she looked
forward to eating one when Ye Olde Tea-House re-opened.
She then
discussed the problems of the modern clergy and the joys of bicycling with the
Padre, who used that mode of transportation on his visits to
parishioners. “Mistress Pillson started the craze, ye ken. But it’s
been mair help to me than anythin’ wi’ gettin’ ‘round ma wee parish,” said the
Padre who was pleased to learn that the Duchess of Whitby was a fellow cycling
enthusiast.
“I find it so
helpful for hauling supplies from the station to Whitby Old House,” said
Marcia. “But even when supplies aren’t expected, I often ride down to the
station just for the pleasure of the ride. Such freedom!” she confided to
her partner and opponents. The Padre then told the tale of Lucia’s cycling
prowess, the speed of which had caused her to be fined in court.
During the
break between games, Marcia spoke to Susan Wyse and commented how extensive her
support of Tilling Hospital must be in order to merit an MBE, which her husband
had mentioned over dinner. “The MBE is quite uncommon,” she said
to Susan. Doing her best to imply that she was deeply impressed, “I
should think that you would display it with pride,” Marcia continued.
Susan
acknowledged that her servants frequently put the Order on display when guests
were expected as “they seem so proud of it.” Susan remembered Elizabeth
Mapp’s (not yet Flint) disparaging comment that all Susan had done was place
her car at the hospital’s disposal when she was not using it herself, but
recognition of her work by the Duchess, as well as by the King, made up
for Elizabeth’s sarcasm.
When the time
came for Marcia Whitby to make small-talk with Lucia, the moment she had been
dreading, she found herself amused rather than irritated by Lucia’s description
of her tenure as the first female Mayor of Tilling. Rather surprising, she thought, this
woman, who was so foolish a social climber that season in London, has developed
a deeper character than I ever imagined a socialite could have.
The players
resumed their seats and began the second rubber. Because the Padre was by
far the best Bridge player in Tilling and “Duchess Marcia,” as she was now known
to all of Tilling society (with two notable exceptions) was quite good herself,
it was unsurprising that these two won quite heavily. And Marcia scored
further points by dividing her winnings, exercising the Judgement of Solomon by
giving half to the Padre for “the poor of Tilling parish” and half to Evie for
the Girl Guides.
“Such
generosity! I’m sure the girls will be thrilled when I tell them,” said
Evie without squeaking at all. Already she planning to have each member
of that worthy troop write a thank you note to the Duchess of Whitby.
“Aye, your
donation, ‘twill do a mort o’ good,” agreed the Padre.
Marcia smiled,
wondering to herself at how much pleasure a few of shillings can give to
people.
As the party
began to break up, there was still one question burning in everyone’s
mind: Would the Duchess of Whitby file a police complaint about Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint’s false accusation against her? It was Diva who finally
blurted out, “Duchess Marcia, do you really intend to prosecute Elizabeth?”
Tilling held its collective breath. While it was rather rude of Diva to
ask such a question, the answer was something everyone wanted to know.
Marcia was
aware of their keen interest. She paused as if deliberating, then said,
“I think not. I’m sure she has had more than enough time to be sorry for
her rashness and has likely learned her lesson.”
Diva was not
the only person in the room who thought, I
think not; not like Elizabeth to learn her lesson at all. But no
one contradicted the Duchess aloud.
~~~~~~~~~~
The next
morning, there was a great deal of talk to be done in Tilling about the events
of yesterday. Diva, having risen early, saw Duchess Marcia riding
through Tilling on her contraption, headed toward Peasmarsh Farm, and she
saw Lucia walking briskly to the police station, and she wanted to tell
everyone so. Of course, the main topic of conversation was the contrast
between Elizabeth’s behavior and that of the Duchess. The general opinion
of Tilling was that Duchess Marcia’s initial exclamation and accusation had
been atoned for completely and was therefore best forgotten.
At breakfast,
Mr Wyse said to his spouse of Elizabeth that “this is not the kind of behavior
we expect in our Tilling.”
“Yes, she
wanted to cut off all her friends from the little items we need and can only
obtain through the Marchè Noir. So mean of Elizabeth. And so
charming of the Duchess to take an interest in your connection to the Contessa
di Faraglioni,” replied Susan.
“And she was
most impressed by you order. Susan Wyse, M. B. E.” responded her spouse.
The Bartletts
in the Vicarage discussed the events, the food, and the fashions. Evie
sighed over “Duchess Marcia’s beautiful dress," and her husband determined
to purchase dress material for his “wee wifey” as soon as possible; he must ask
Diva where she got the material for that pretty green frock she wore last
night. The Padre reflected that sometimes he forgot that Evie was a
woman, as he took her for granted as a wife and helpmeet. And the Bartletts,
too, were censorious about Elizabeth’s behavior.
“It was
scandalous; she committed an act that, while possibly with merit, was done out
of malice toward for her friends,” said Evie.
“Ach, weil,
‘tis a hard thing, being Mistress Mapp-Flint,” said her husband, remembering he
was a priest and should be forgiving and forbearing. And remembering the
other cheek, he added, “and ‘tis a harder thing still to be her husband.”
During shopping
hour, Diva and Evie and Susan gathered in the queue at Twemlow’s, the grocer’s.
“So foolish of
Elizabeth,” began Diva.
“But so
characteristic of her,” continued Susan.
“To botch the
job like that,” finished Evie. The vicar’s wife had lately developed a
passion for reading cheap American detective magazines and novels, and these
stories had influenced her speech; a large number of these paperback fictions
had been donated to the Church for its jumble sale, and Evie was devouring them
as fast as she could so as to be done with them before the sale. “Criminal,
that’s what it is. And so kind of the Duchess not to have her thrown in
the slammer,” continued Evie.
“And Elizabeth
so utterly rude,” continued Susan, “Even Algernon had strong words about her
behavior.”
“Just like
Elizabeth,” finished Diva. All three nodded as one. The discussion
then came around to “Duchess Marcia” and was quite favourable.
“So charming of
the Duchess to take such notice of us all,” began Evie.
“She was ever
so interested in my tea-house; when I told her of the signboard Irene had
painted for me, she thought it most clever and amusing,” continued Diva.
“A woman of
fine perception and great kindness. Not to mention generous,” finished
Susan.
Then, on the
subject of dress: “Such a beautiful gown,” began Diva, “cream-colored chiffon.
And fringe!”
“The cut and
quality positively shouted hautè couture,” continued Susan.
Evie just
sighed. It was sometimes so difficult to be the church mouse.
~~~~~~~~~~
Absent from the
morning shopping were the Mapp-Flints. Elizabeth had spent a sleepless
night, her feelings alternating between indignation and dread. Major
Benjy, who had been denied a “jolly good dinner with a Duchess,” was grumpy and
unsympathetic. At breakfast, Elizabeth tried sobbing a little, which only
made her husband suggest a glass of water for her hiccups.
“I don’t need a
glass of water. I need to know what that woman is planning to do to me!”
said an anxious Elizabeth. “Benjy, you must go down to the police station
after shopping hour is over and see if that woman has made a complaint. I
cannot rest easy until I know, and I certainly will not set foot in Tilling
without knowing what awaits me there.”
So, later that
the morning, Major Benjy put on his hat and walked into town. He called
at the police station and spoke with Inspector Morrison.
“I understand
my wife has been giving you a bit of trouble lately,” said Benjy, “I hope she
didn’t create too much havoc?”
“Your wife
engaged in criminal activity in the misguided belief that she could bring down
the Black Market single-handedly. It never occurred to her that she,
herself, became a criminal in doing so,” said Inspector Morrison
severely. “She’s very lucky that the lady whom she accused has declined
to file a complaint against her. You wife would be better off if she
refrained from trying to do police work in the future.”
“Thank you,
Inspector. Very grateful. Will talk to Mrs Mapp-Flint about
it. Thank you,” and with that Benjy returned to Grebe with the good
news. He also relayed Inspector Morrison’s other remarks as well, which
left Elizabeth a little docile. She did have the presence of mind to
thank her husband, “you always look after me, Benjy.” She then left her
husband to “have a little snooze” before luncheon. He had a large drink from
his flask, full of Black Market liquor, before he began his little snooze.
Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint now had more planning to do. How could she get out of
this? Her noble plan to save Tilling from itself had backfired and made
her virtuous purpose appear simply spiteful. She knew Tilling would
be against her, she knew that she was being reviled in the shopping
queue. She must be genial and kind to all. She would have to
sacrifice some of her tea and sugar on the altar of society. At least
Inspector Morrison had not confiscated the sugar she had bought from Hopkins;
much of this year’s plum and strawberry jam must be offered up to Tilling,
while the marrow she would have to keep for herself. As aggravating as it
was, there was no other way. She would begin her campaign to win back her
friends as soon as the Duchess had left the vicinity. Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint was down, but she would never concede defeat.
~~~~~~~~~~
Also absent
from the morning rounds were the Pillsons, whose need to stand in queues had
been abated for a time by the delivery of Lady Brixton’s wonderful gift.
Instead they stood in the kitchen with all the tins and bags and jars laid out
on the kitchen table and counters. Foljambe and the cook stood on either
side of the kitchen table, like soldiers on guard duty.
“What did
Inspector Morrison say?” Georgie asked.
“He said that
Elizabeth spent a great deal of money on sugar from the Marchè Noir,
purportedly to make jam with, and then reported that she had done so to police,
never realizing that she had incriminated herself in the crime,” said Lucia.
“And what about
Hopkins and the others?” Georgie asked.
“Hopkins agreed
to tell what he knows about Williamson. Kelley from the Globe will not be
charged—all the liquor in the pub had the appropriate tax stamps, and any
liquor he might have received from Williamson he had donated to the Home Guard
for their ‘dinners,’ and all the evidence has been consumed. Williamson
was caught with goods and ration tickets on his person and in his home.
He will stand trial; my Inspector says he had a ‘stranglehold’ on the local
Market, and other witnesses, more credible than poor, bungling Elizabeth, have
come forward.”
“All’s well
that ends well,” said Georgie, echoing Duchess Marcia.
“We must put
together little gift baskets for all our dear friends,” said Lucia, looking
over the bounty.
“Even
Elizabeth?” asked Georgie.
“Now, we must
decide what to give to whom, although I must say I don’t think Elizabeth
deserves a thing. She probably has a huge hoard of goods hidden away,”
said Georgie, who was closer to the truth than he realized.
“Let us give
them all a basket, Diva and the Bartletts and the Wyses and the
Mapp-Flints: peaches, pears, baking powder, cocoa if you can part with
it,” said Lucia.
“And salmon and
oysters. But I’m keeping the artichoke hearts and apricots for special
recipes I’m working on. They can all come in and eat the results,” said
Georgie. “And tooth powder and soap.”
“Begging your
pardon, Sir, Madam, perhaps you could give some of the bluing to the laundress;
she said some months ago that she had none and was having difficulty keeping your
clothing as white as her standards called for,” suggested Foljambe. Georgie and Lucia agreed that this was an
excellent idea.
“And tea and
coffee and tinned milk for our friends.” Georgie suddenly burst out, “I’m so
tired of serving it weak and without any sugar or milk!”
“And we must
give dear Elizabeth some more sugar so she can make her delicious plum jam that
did so much, so she wrongly said, to enhance the already perfect flavour of
your oatcakes. . . .” said Lucia.
Georgie
paused. “She should have the decency to send it all back to us, as she
did with the tomatoes our first summer here,” he said.
THE END
Note: most of the images used were taken from image searches, and I apologize if I unknowingly infringed on anyone’s copyright by using them.
Text copyright 2011 Kathleen Bradford
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