Mrs Mapp-Flint’s Golden Goose,
Or, Mr Georgie and the Chinese Gooseberries
Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint had a problem. Without consulting her, her husband Major
Benjamin Mapp-Flint, late of His Majesty’s army, had given a box full of
feathers to her old friend Diva Plaistow for Diva’s fiftieth
birthday. Because his gift was so completely appropriate and
unexpected, it was lauded by all their friends in the small town of Tilling.
In consequence of her friends’ attitude, Elizabeth was unable to directly
punish her beloved spouse for his failure to consult her, and to let her choose
the best plumes for her own use, before giving them to Diva. Thinking
that if the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, then the way to a
husband’s punishment must lie in similar gustatory territory, Elizabeth ordered
her cook to make food out of what most would consider offal. The cook,
who wanted to make meals that were wholesome and toothsome, immediately gave a
month’s notice, citing Mrs Mapp-Flint’s on-going refusal to provide the
necessities for good cooking as her reason for leaving.
Elizabeth’s
parsimony, which had become an increasingly repellent character trait in the
last few years, had made her pull the purse-strings of the household budget
tighter than wasp-waisted corset-strings. In the cook’s view, attempting
to make something palatable out of the cheapest fish and the least desirable
cuts of meat had grown to be more than she could tolerate. In Elizabeth’s
view, the cook should cook what the mistress told her to, and that was
that. After all, the kitchen had been completely re-fitted after the
great Boxing Day Flood and had all the modern conveniences, so Cook should have
nothing to complain about, Elizabeth thought.
It was thus
that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint found herself in the agency applying to Mr Locke, the
manager, for a new cook. When that good man asked Mrs Mapp-Flint what the
remuneration would be, her response gave him pause, as he thought, Surely she must be joking. But it
became apparent that Mrs Mapp-Flint believed she could hire a credible cook on
such a niggardly wage, and Mr Locke felt compelled to disabuse her of this
idea.
“I shall be
unable to procure a proper cook for that wage,” he stated. “In fact,” he
continued as Mrs Mapp-Flint opened her mouth to protest, “I shall be unable to
procure even a scullery maid for such compensation.” He then named the
salary of a first-rate cook, which caused Mrs Mapp-Flint to pale
visibly. Mr Locke plunged on with Mrs Mapp-Flint’s wake-up
call: the salary of a maid who could “cook basics” was provided, but all
Mrs Mapp-Flint had to say was that she would think about it.
Elizabeth
trudged back to her home, Grebe, on the marshes outside of Tilling. She
knew that it was not so much that she did not have the money, but she had a
gambling streak in her character and had lost money in bad investments.
That money—and more—had been recouped when she traded her old house, Mallards,
for Grebe which had belonged to Lucia Lucas, now Lucia Pillson. Lucia
included as her part of the trade the sum of two thousand, one hundred pounds,
which more than covered the two thousand pounds which Elizabeth had sunk into
her investment in a South African gold mine. The loss of two thousand
pounds, which had lessened her income by seventy pounds per annum, had stung
Elizabeth into an unbecoming frugality, which the extra one hundred pounds that
Lucia paid her were unable to ameliorate.
And, as Diva
Plaistow had pointed out, Elizabeth still owned the shares in Siriami, and they
could begin paying dividends any day now. Diva did not know, and
Elizabeth kept this secret: she had already received her first quarterly
dividend cheque several weeks ago, and an accompanying letter from the mines
had thanked the shareholders for their patience and promised more riches to
come. If Siriami stocks kept paying dividends at the present rate,
Elizabeth stood to increase the lost income of seventy pounds per annum to just
over two hundred, and perhaps she could even sell the shares at a resounding
profit.
But her loss of
control, first at the gambling tables of Monte Carlo whilst she and Benjy were
on their honeymoon, and then at the stock exchange when she and Benjy had
returned from their honeymoon, had frightened Elizabeth a good deal. She
blamed Lucia, who had introduced the Siriami shares to Tilling society, for her
subsequent loss of income; and though she did not like to admit it to herself,
and certainly would never admit it to any other person, Elizabeth recognized
that the un-Christian sin of greed, the desire to get something for nothing,
was the root of her problem.
Indeed, her
weekly bookkeeping and paying of tradesmen’s bills had been for years the
subject of her most vituperative arguments, her most clever stratagems, and her
most poignant (she thought) attempts aimed at “getting a deal” from those
tradesmen. These weekly arguments were part of Elizabeth’s emotional
bread-and-butter before her marriage. After her marriage, her Benjy-boy
became the focus of her argumentative nature, and the pressure upon Tilling’s
tradesmen was somewhat lessened.
Thus Elizabeth
Mapp-Flint’s servant problem sprang from a much more serious problem:
avarice. But as she trudged homeward after her unhappy interview with Mr
Locke, she had an idea. She could place her own advertisement in the London
newspaper, just as she had successfully advertised Grebe, and Mallards before
it, as a summer let. Elizabeth thought, I can include ‘salary based on experience’ in the advertisement and
once the cook is here, explain there is a trial period of two weeks, since the
Major is so choosy about his food. Elizabeth had a momentary image of
an endless line of cooks applying, only to be dismissed with little pay at the
end of two weeks, and replaced with the next applicant. Upon her return
to Grebe, Elizabeth wrote out her advertisement and sent it, with a cheque to
pay the cost of one weeks’ posting, to the Times.
Some days
later, she read with satisfaction her own advertisement, thinking once again of
endless applicants. But four days passed without anyone who had
experience as a cook seeking the post. There were two “maids who can cook
basics,” as Mr Locke had mentioned, who applied, but both lived far north of
Tilling; Elizabeth could not bring herself to reimburse them for train fare, as
they requested, when her polite refusal to interview the applicants cost only
one sheet of paper, one envelope, and one stamp.
Elizabeth
thought it odd that neither cook nor maid who lived in Tilling or its
surrounding villages had applied; it never occurred to her that her years of
arguing with the tradesmen worked against her—all Tilling knew Elizabeth to be
“cheap” and disputatious.
On the fifth
day after her advertisement appeared, she received a letter from an agency in
London offering to handle the procurement of a suitable cook for a small fee;
this letter she rapidly consigned to the trash. The sixth day was
similarly fruitless.
On the seventh
day, she received a letter from Mrs Gladys Fortesque, who stated she was a
widow and that her most recent post was in Brighton. Mrs Fortesque wrote
that she had many years of cooking experience and was adept at kitchen
management; she would provide letters of reference from her last two employers,
both single ladies, both now sadly deceased, for whom she acted as
cook-housekeeper. This looked promising; however, the housekeeper
part could cause some problems, as Withers had managed the housekeeping for
many years. Elizabeth hastened to send Mrs Fortesque a note, asking her
to come to Grebe in two days’ time for an interview.
~~~~~~~~~~
The appointed day
for the interview of the applicant arrived, and Elizabeth and Benjy sat eating
breakfast. Benjy was rather grumpy and slightly hung-over, as the
Mapp-Flints had joined the Wyses for dinner and a rubber of Bridge the night
before, with the usual dipsomaniacal behavior from Benjy; in consequence, he
tried to hide from his irritatingly cheerful wife behind the newspaper.
Elizabeth, happily anticipating a successful interview and a new cook, tapped
playfully on Benjy’s newspaper. He growled a little, which made Elizabeth
laugh.
“Boo!
Benjy! What’s the news today?” she sang out gaily, thereby aggravating
her husband’s headache.
“Nothing,” he
rumbled.
A headline
caught Elizabeth’s eye. “Benjy!” the playfulness had left Elizabeth’s
voice. “Read me that article!” she commanded.
Benjy turned
over the newspaper and read aloud:
“’MURDER CHARGE. Mrs Gladys Fortesque, 46 years of age, and
was charged at a Brighton court today with the murder of her employer,
eccentric old widow Mrs Sarah Pickett. Mrs Fortesque was remanded until
next Friday. Mrs Fortesque and her husband went to live with 77-year-old
Mrs Pickett 3 months ago as caretakers. On May 1 of this year Mrs
Fortesque had a doctor certify that Mrs Pickett was of sound mind. On May
2, Mrs Pickett made out a will leaving her home, valued at £3000, to Mrs
Fortesque. On May 14, Mrs Pickett died suddenly; police believe that Mrs
Fortesque poisoned her employer by putting yew berries in Mrs Pickett’s
favourite red currant jam, which she liked to eat by the spoonful. Police
in Blackpool, where Mrs Fortesque was previously employed, have requested the
Court’s permission to have the body of Mrs Louisa Mayfield exhumed. The
elderly Mrs Mayfield was Mrs Fortesque’s former employer and died suddenly after
buying an insurance policy naming Mrs Fortesque as beneficiary. No
charges have been made against Mr Alfred Fortesque, 70 years of age, who was
admitted to hospital with gastric problems and is possibly another victim of
his wife of 2 years, who had recently purchased in his name a life insurance
policy with a double indemnity clause, naming herself beneficiary.’”
Elizabeth’s
eyes grew wide. “That’s the cook I was to interview today!” she
exclaimed. “Just think what might have happened if I hired her.”
“Well, Girlie,
Someone must be looking out for us,” replied Benjy, who just stopped himself
from mentioning Tilling’s Sardine Tartlet Poisoner; Elizabeth still became
histrionically upset whenever that incident was mentioned. “Perhaps you
ought to use the agency after all.”
“Yes, I’ll see
to it when I do the marketing,” Elizabeth could hardly wait to spread the news
of her narrow escape from certain death.
Benjy was just
as eager. “I’ll walk into town with you, Girlie. Don’t want
anything to happen to you. I’ll meet the Padre and we’ll take the tram
out to the golf links, just like old times.” The tram ride cost money,
and Grebe was nearer to the links than Tilling, but the ride would guarantee
Major Benjy a captive audience in the Reverend Kenneth Bartlett.
Elizabeth
carried the newspaper into the kitchen to show cook and Withers the story,
while Major Benjy picked up a slice of toast, spread liberally with Elizabeth’s
home-made red currant preserves, and eyed it doubtfully. But hunger over
came conjecture and Benjy quickly devoured the toast, washed it down with a
large drink of tea from his over-sized teacup. His Girlie could certainly
make excellent jam.
The walk into
Tilling was uneventful. The first person the Mapp-Flints encountered
inside the town was “Quaint” Irene Coles, local artist, political radical and
socialist. Although her birth registry indicated that she was female, she
usually dressed in male attire purchased on the docks; she said this allowed
her to feel closer akin to the proletariat. Quaint Irene was the person
Elizabeth hated most, for Irene was a skilled mimic and Irene’s honest, albeit
crude, take on events offended Elizabeth, especially since Elizabeth’s own
chicanery was often lampooned by Quaint Irene. Despite her unconventional
and often embarrassing behavior, Irene was never banned from Tilling society,
as Elizabeth often wished. And Irene had painted the Royal Academy’s
Picture of the Year, which cemented her place in Tilling social circles.
Elizabeth also hated Irene because Irene had ousted Elizabeth from her seat in
the Town Council in the last election.
Major Benjy,
however, got on swimmingly with Irene, who was known to carry a large flask
labeled “Turpentine,” which actually contained one (or more, as Irene filled
the flask from whatever liquor bottle was at hand) of those spirituous
beverages in which Major Benjy loved to imbibe. Consequently, Elizabeth
walked on while Benjy stopped to tell Irene the story of another escape from
poisoning by Elizabeth and, probably, himself. Quaint Irene was rather
less-than-sympathetic toward Elizabeth, and so, secretly, was Major Benjy, but
the story was one that would thrill Tilling for a day or two.
Leaving her
husband and Quaint Irene behind, Elizabeth continued up the High Street where
she ran into Diva Plaistow, in whose market basket was a large live crab and
some vegetables. “Dining well, Diva?” Elizabeth queried, nodding to the
crab, which feebly waved its claws about.
“Felt like
dressed crab, that’s all. Decided to splurge,” replied Diva. “Any
news?” Elizabeth relayed her servant woes and her escape from poisoning.
“Golly!
You cheated Death once more!” exclaimed Diva, referring to the time that
Elizabeth had been served a poisoned sardine tartlet in Diva’s business, Ye
Olde Tea-House.
“Yes,
Diva. I fancy that God himself is looking after me,” replied Elizabeth
calmly; she must remember that phrase for when she spoke to the Padre.
Now that Diva
had learned the story, Elizabeth had to race to tell it to the next person, as
Diva was the best gossip in town and would steal Elizabeth’s thunder if
Elizabeth was not quick. Seeing Evie Bartlett, wife of the Padre, Diva
made a beeline in that direction, forgetting the crab.
Elizabeth
turned and saw Mr Georgie Pillson some distance away, looking doubtfully at a
display of fruit at the fruiterers. Mr Georgie held an oval fruit with
fuzzy brown skin in one hand; “But how do you eat it?” he asked the proprietor,
who produced a hawksbill folding knife from his pocket, laid a gooseberry on a
small cutting board, and rapidly peeled and sliced it. The sight of the bright
green fruit dotted with small black seeds did little to assuage Mr Georgie’s
doubts; however, he picked up a wedge of the gooseberry and gently bit off a
small piece. His face brightened. “Not bad!”
“Not something
I carry regularly, but I like them in a nice fruit salad,” said the
fruiterer. “A little something different from oranges and strawberries.”
“Yes. And
I think they’d form a lovely counterpoint to peaches,” said Georgie.
“Please send them to Mallards House and I’ll have Cook put them in our fruit
salad as a surprise! But don’t tell anyone. I want to see their
faces when they see this odd fruit served to them! Pity it has to be
skinned before serving.”
“I understand,
Mr Pillson! I completely understand,” said the fruit-man, and he and his
customer laughed. Havers, the fruiterer, occasionally introduced new
fruits to his customers, and of all his customers Mr Pillson was the most
likely to try something unusual—and the Chinese gooseberry was certainly
that. Both men liked to surprise their friends and family with something
new at the dinner table.
“Oh! Here
comes Mrs Mapp-Flint. . . .” said Georgie; the fruiterer winked and instantly
whisked the Chinese gooseberries away from Mrs Mapp-Flint’s sharp and critical
eyes. Like all the tradesmen of Tilling, the fruiterer had no love for
Mrs Mapp-Flint and her cheese-paring arguments. Georgie thought, I must remember to tell Cook to serve them
in her poppy-seed dressing, but leave out the poppy seeds—they might be
confused with the gooseberry seeds, and they wreak havoc with my partial
dentures.
Georgie wreathed
his face with smiles as Elizabeth approached. “How do you do,” he asked
politely, raising his hat. Elizabeth thought, last years’ boater with a new darker riband, probably matches his
socks. Elizabeth showed him the newspaper and told her story.
Georgie, who usually said the right thing, rose to the occasion and was so
sympathetic that Elizabeth felt she needed to tell no one else—besides, Diva,
assisted by her maid Janet, would have the news all over Tilling within the
next few minutes, unless Diva remembered the crab. But there had been ice
in the bottom of Diva’s basket, so the crab could probably wait, at least until
the ice melted enough to cause the basket to drip.
Elizabeth
parted from Mr Georgie and completed her own shopping. Georgie returned
to Mallards House and explained the Chinese gooseberries to Cook, who knew
about them but had “never got to work with any.” She said instead of
fruit salad, she would create a luscious dessert tart which also included
strawberries and peaches, as she had a special recipe that she had obtained
from a relative who worked in the kitchen at the Savoy in London.
“And it’s a
secret—I want to see everyone’s faces when they first see the fruit,” said
Georgie. “Can you make the tart for Lucia’s dinner party tomorrow
night? Everyone will be there.” He paused, “The fruit will be
on the top so everyone can see it?”
The cook
answered affirmative and pledged to keep the secret. “Oh, Sir! How
I wish I could be there when it’s served!” she said.
“Foljambe and
Grosvenor will tell you all about it! We can trust their discretion with
our little surprise,” promised her employer, happy for his cook’s enthusiasm
for his audacious culinary experiment.
~~~~~~~~~
The following
day, Withers brought in the morning post whilst Elizabeth and Benjy were at
breakfast. Along with the usual bills, many of which would be
disputed by Mrs Mapp-Flint, there was an envelope of thick, creamy,
high-quality rag paper. The letter contained therein made Elizabeth
forget about her brush with death. For the letter was from a brokerage
firm in London, Caldenova and Son, Limited, offering to purchase her parcel of
shares in the Siriami Mining and Assay Corporation. The price offered
would be a tremendous profit, more than double what she had initially
paid. Elizabeth’s inherent avarice, which had been quietly rumbling,
erupted like Vesuvius on that fatal morning. A cloud of greed, like
superheated gas and ash, instantly burned Elizabeth Mapp-Flint to the bone, and
she did not stop to consider the long-term gains that she might accrue if she
retained her Siriami shares. A rapaciousness that exceeded even
Elizabeth’s normal greed was suddenly upon her. All she could think of
was £5,000—five thousand pounds!—safely grasped in her podgy little
fist. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint instantly stopped her Worship of the Golden
Calf and embraced the Worship of Mammon; after all, the golden calf Siriami had
proved a false god, old and slow to respond to entreaties, but Mammon knew the
ins-and-outs of the Stock Market.
Elizabeth sat
back in order to catch her breath. Benjy noticed his wife’s agitation and
asked, “Everything all right, Girlie?” She had not appeared this upset
since the spectre of Captain Puffin had followed her home.
Hastily folding
the letter and pushing it back into the envelope, Elizabeth replied, “Nothing,
Benjy. Just some bad news from a childhood friend. Nothing to worry
about.”
Benjy knew
Elizabeth was fabricating, again; she was far too excited for her poor excuse
to be true. Perhaps sometime she would leave the letter unguarded and he
could take a peek at its contents.
As soon as
Benjy picked up his golf bag and marched off to the links, Elizabeth re-opened
and re-read the offer. By now the ecstasy of five thousand pounds had
faded and was replaced by an imprudent acquisitiveness. She began
composing a response, but instead of accepting the offer, she stated that she
was dependent upon the shares for her small income and, out of concern for her
future independence, could not possibly part with them for less than seven
thousand pounds. Not wanting to trust the letter to Withers for the
afternoon post, Elizabeth carried the letter into Tilling and handed it in at
the post office herself. Then with girlish buoyancy, she tripped down the
High Street to do her marketing.
As Elizabeth
went into the grocers, Quaint Irene was coming out. “What ho, Mapp!
Avoiding poisoners today?!” Irene exclaimed by way of greeting.
“Quaint One!
So sweet of you to ask! Such concern for my welfare!” Elizabeth’s
smile was happy, not the ferocious smile of a cornered hyena that she usually
turned on Irene.
“What’s up with
you, Mapp! I haven’t seen you this happy since my Lucia appointed you
Mayoress,” asked Irene.
“Oh,
nothing—nothing that I can speak of now, but there may be good news later,”
replied Elizabeth. “Have a wonderful afternoon painting your sweet
pictures, Dear Quaint One! Perhaps another Picture of the Year?”
Elizabeth and Benjy had figured prominently in Irene’s entry to the Royal
Academy which had won Picture of the Year. With that Elizabeth entered
Twemlow’s leaving a confused Irene at the door.
Elizabeth made
an extravagant order from the grocer, which included another terrine of the pâté
de foie gras which Lucia and Georgie had sent to Miss Mapp as a gift for
their first Christmas in Tilling. Although she had heartily enjoyed the pâté,
Elizabeth had never been able to admit that she had so luxuriated in the gift
from her rival Lucia. Now with five thousand pounds, and perhaps more, as
good as in her pocket, Elizabeth would show Diva what splurging really meant.
Elizabeth went
to Hopkins’ fish shop and ordered sole and, again taking her cue from Diva,
ordered two large crabs.
And at the
butcher’s, she ordered beef tenderloin and leg of lamb. So surprised was
Mr Worthington that she had to give her order twice; he couldn’t believe that,
after so many months of always ordering the cheapest cuts he carried, Mrs
Mapp-Flint actually wanted “real English beef.” She also asked that two
pheasants or capons be sent to Grebe the next day, if available, and she
inquired as to the availability of a haunch of venison.
Because writing
her response to Caldenova and Son, Limited, had made her late with her
marketing, Elizabeth’s friends were no longer in the High Street, so she
tripped home, walking on air. Elizabeth told her cook that “proper
foodstuffs” had been ordered and would soon be delivered. Elizabeth had
considered the wages of a cook as provided by Mr Locke, which made her fearful
that someone might lure “her” cook or Withers away with a promise of increased
remuneration. So to the servants’ surprise, in addition to better food,
Mrs Mapp-Flint gave them a small increase in their wages. “You should
give notice more often,” said Withers to the cook after their employer had left
the kitchen.
In consequence
of Elizabeth’s late marketing, it was Diva’s maid Janet who told her of Mrs
Mapp-Flint’s odd demeanor and extravagant food orders. Diva’s first
response, which she refrained from voicing, was that Janet had gotten hold of
bad information; but Janet’s news had always been reliable in the past.
Diva knew she would meet Elizabeth and Benjy at Mallards House for dinner, so
she determined to see if she could find out the reason for Elizabeth’s shocking
change in behavior then.
~~~~~~~~~~
Tilling society
assembled at Mallards House for dinner, followed by Bridge, or Piquet for the
unlucky duo that drew low cards and was ousted from the Bridge table. The
Mapp-Flints joined Mr and Mrs Wyse, the Padre and Evie Bartlett, Diva Plaistow
and Irene Coles in the garden-room, where Mr Georgie was serving
cocktails.
Georgie was
gratified that Susan Wyse noticed his “beautiful new cocktail set” and he
acknowledged that he now had four cocktail sets, but since there were never
enough glasses in one set for entertaining, having four sets worked out well
and allowed him to serve more than one kind of cocktail. He further
divulged that the new set was a gift from his friend Olga Braceley, the Prima
Donna. This led to an exchange of news, Georgie’s about Olga—in
London, rehearsing Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermore—which was why she
sent the cocktail set, “since I’m stealing your Lucia’s name for a few
performances”; Mr Wyse’s, about his sister the Contessa di Faraglione—back in
Capri (Mr Wyse, who had bowed to Olga in London now bowed to Amelia in Capri);
and Mrs Wyse’s, about her daughter Isabel Poppit—who was moving back to civilization
at Mallards Cottage after living in a shack in the dunes by the sea.
At the other
end of the garden-room, Diva had waited at the door for Elizabeth to arrive
and, upon her arrival, Diva immediately said, “I hear you’re dining well, too;
dressed crab? Leg of lamb?”
“Yes,” said
Elizabeth with a sigh, as Benjy quickly made his way across the room to the
whisky decanter and the siphon, pausing only to greet his hostess. “I
decided to keep my old cook. We are all just puppets at our servants’ command,”
intoned Elizabeth as Diva picked up a canapé from the tray Foljambe had
just presented. Foljambe bit back the response she wanted to give and,
after Elizabeth helped herself to Black Sea caviar on Melba toast, whisked the
tray away to offer the hors d’oeuvre to Lucia and the Bartletts, and
then on to Irene who was gazing adoringly at Lucia, who was resplendent in a
red evening gown with a matching cape trimmed in Russian fox fur. Not one
more bite of caviar would Mrs Mapp-Flint be offered this night—puppets indeed!
Elizabeth
considered telling Diva that Siriami was now paying dividends, but decided to
save if for the dinner table; she saw herself leading the toast, “To Siriami!”
Mr Wyse and
Georgie carried drinks to Elizabeth and Diva. “I have been told by
fleet-footed Rumour, that you have survived another Dance with Death,” said Mr
Wyse, bowing to Elizabeth, Diva and Death in turn.
“Oh, yes!
I was going to interview a new cook, but she was arrested the day before our
interview for poisoning her employer; such a narrow escape,” said
Elizabeth. Noticing that Evie, Lucia and the Padre had joined them, she
put on her Sunday morning pious expression and said to the Padre, “God must be
looking out for me.”
The Padre
responded, “’Be surety for thy servant for good’ the Psalms say, and God was
surety for you.”
Elizabeth’s
pious expression faltered a little as she remembered another phrase from the
Bible, “Ye cannot serve both God and Mammon,” and realized that she would have
to make a donation to the Church. At least she would only be announcing
that Siriami was paying dividends, not that she was selling at a substantial
profit; the Padre would expect less of a contribution from a small income than
from a large lump sum. Suddenly making a public announcement celebrating
Siriami seemed unwise; better to mention it in passing and down-play the
amount—gossipy Tilling would hear the news soon enough.
Lucia’s gimlet
eyes were fixed on Elizabeth. “Elizabeth! I see in the City news
that Siriami has begun paying dividends! How happy that must make you,
reaping your golden reward at last!” Lucia smiled.
Fortunately
several people stood between Lucia and Elizabeth, who had a burning desire to
reach out and slap her rival. Drawing a deep breath, “Why, yes. I
was going to announce my good fortune at dinner, but—” Elizabeth broke off.
“So sorry to
steal your news, Elizabeth. I was so happy for your good fortune after
being so patient, I felt that I simply must congratulate you. I
thought everyone would have read the news story,” Lucia said, looking around at
their friends, knowing full well that, after the craze for buying stocks had
died down, no one looked at the City news except Lucia herself, and she gave it
only a glance; luckily her glance had fallen upon the familiar name of Siriami.
Elizabeth bared
her teeth and said sweetly, “No matter, dear Worship. The dividends are
so small that I am surprised they were considered news-worthy.”
Diva realized
something was not quite right about Elizabeth’s poor-mouthing, so she asked,
“But if the dividends are small, why all the extravagant food purchases?”
Still dripping
sweetness, Elizabeth cleverly explained, “My cook complained, and so I had to
put off purchasing the new suits for my Benjy-boy and a frock for myself and
use my savings to provide for her. One must keep a good cook happy.”
“A good cook is
hard to find,” said Benjy, shaking his finger for emphasis. Major Benjy
was already a little squiffy, as Mr Georgie could certainly shake a good
cocktail.
Grosvenor
entered the room and announced dinner. Service of dinner was marked by Mr
Wyse proposing a toast “to Siriami and Mrs Mapp-Flint’s good fortune,” and
everyone congratulating Elizabeth and Benjy, who praised the foresight of his
wife in holding on to her shares. Under the spell of good food and good
wine, Elizabeth’s mood became less acid.
Before dessert
was served, Georgie said to Foljambe, “Will you bring up some champagne so we
can celebrate the Mapp-Flint’s good fortune properly?” And two bottles
were brought in; the popping of the corks, the filling of the glasses, and yet
another round of congratulations kept everyone from noticing the Chinese
gooseberry tart. Thus it was that everyone looked down at their plates at
one time, saw the odd-looking slices of fruit on their piece of tart and, as
one, all turned their heads and looked inquiringly at Lucia, whose forehead wrinkled
slightly.
Seeing that
everyone looked confounded, and even his sposa was unusually puzzled,
Georgie giggled. Foljambe and Grosvenor, ever professional, displayed
only a slight up-turn at the corners of their mouths. Foljambe thought
that the look of consternation on Mrs Mapp-Flint’s face almost made up for her
rude comment about servants.
“Georgie?”
Lucia looked at her husband.
“Gooseberries!”
he exclaimed. “Chinese gooseberries! Try them; if you don’t like
them, we shan’t have them again.” Everyone cut into their wedge of tart
from the side rather than from the point, as the gooseberries were in between
the peaches in the center and the strawberries around the edge. Although
most looked doubtful, they dutifully tasted the tart.
“Not bad,” said
Irene, shrugging slightly. “Glad it’s a tart and not a tartlet,” said the
Quaint One, earning sharp looks from Elizabeth and Diva that only gratified the
speaker.
“Interesting,
but I don’t think my customers would like it,” said Diva, who was always
looking for new recipes for Ye Olde Tea-House and had gotten into the habit of
first considering the commercial aspects of any new dish. Realizing that
her comment might be construed as criticism, she quickly added, “But I quite
like the taste.”
“A good,
imaginative change from the usual fruits,” said Susan Wyse who, having little
imagination herself, was always willing to praise it in others.
Major Benjy
said nothing, but swallowed another bite of tart and washed it down with a swig
of champagne, then he motioned for Foljambe to refill his glass.
Evie Bartlett,
it turned out, had heard of Chinese gooseberries but had never seen one.
“Different than citrus and strawberries. I like it.” Her husband
said something in Scottish mixed with Elizabethan English which no one really
understood but which sounded encouraging.
Elizabeth
lifted a forkful and looked it over appraisingly, then put on her I-am-displeased-but-will-not-complain
face. The gusto with which she ate the tart contradicted her look.
Nearly as good as Grandmamma Mapp’s red currant fool, she thought.
“This is
good, Georgie. Susan is right, quite imaginative and different,” said
Lucia.
Mr Wyse had
been silent as he ate his tart properly, beginning with the peaches.
Then, working toward the crust, he tasted the gooseberries and then the
strawberries. He took a small drink of champagne, and suddenly
realized that everyone was awaiting his opinion. “Marvellous,” he said
firmly. “The peaches are almost too sweet when taken with the filling,
but they prepare the palate for the gooseberries, which balance perfectly with
the filling. The touch of acidity with the strawberries is on par with
the gooseberries, but provides a very different flavour.” Mr Wyse bowed
to Georgie. “Please congratulate your cook for me, Mr Pillson. This
tart is a delight.” Turning to his wife, he continued, “We must try to
get Cook to procure some of these Chinese gooseberries for our table,
Susan.” Susan nodded, proud that all of Tilling was listening
respectfully to her urbane husband’s cultured opinion.
After the men
finished their port, they returned to the garden-room where the ladies waited
to cut for Bridge partners. Elizabeth tried to get the others to agree to
play for higher-than-usual stakes, but Diva protested and, when prodded, Evie
Bartlett, the church mouse, agreed that such stakes were “too rich for
me.”
Major Benjy was
able to get just a little intoxicated on this night. Foljambe had opened
only two bottles of champagne, which allowed just a couple of glasses per
person. There had been one bottle of port for the gentlemen. The
hand-cut crystal whisky decanter was only half-full, on Lucia’s orders; she
feared she would lose the draw and once again have to sit out with Major Benjy,
and she wanted to do everything she could to prevent him from placing his hand
upon her knee again.
But it was
Georgie and Evie who drew a two and a five, respectively. They adjourned to a
small table and began to play Piquet; Georgie insisted on setting the stakes a
little higher than Evie was completely comfortable with, then he graciously
lost every hand but one to the Vicar’s wife, much to her pleasure: he
knew she was saving for a quietly tasteful little brown hat which was on
display in the dressmaker’s window.
On the walk
back to Grebe in the pleasant summer night, Elizabeth complained about Lucia
“stealing my news about Siriami.” Which caused Benjy to complain that
Elizabeth had not told him that Siriami was paying dividends and that hiding
things from her husband was not very sporting of her. But the argument
did not last long, as Elizabeth still felt the elation of five thousand pounds
which could, possibly, be turned into seven thousand pounds. The moon,
not quite full, shone peacefully, and the distant croaking of the small frogs
in the marsh was almost musical. “More musical than Lucia’s po-di-mu,”
said Elizabeth, and she and Benjy laughed at her wit. When her Benjy-boy
had offered his arm whilst they traversed a rough patch of tar macadam,
Elizabeth did not pull away, and they walked home arm-in-arm.
A hop-picker,
who was an acquaintance of Irene’s, happened to observe the Mapp-Flints as he
smoked his pipe outside of his shanty when they passed. The next day, he
very properly told Irene what he had seen, the “Mapp-Flint’s being all
romantic-like,” which caused Irene to respond, “How utterly revolting!”
And both Irene and her friend laughed aloud about the “young couple mooning
about on the marsh.” Irene drew a cruel and crude cartoon, titled
“Elderly Lovers by Moonlight,” which formed the basis of her painting (of the
same name) which later won acclaim from the judges as a “Notable Entry” for the
Royal Academy’s Picture of the Year.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was three days
later, days in which every delivery of the post was eagerly pounced on and
mauled by Elizabeth, that another letter from the brokerage firm was
received. Elizabeth had refrained from telling Benjy her plans to sell
Siriami, or as she thought, “to dump those wretched shares.” By her
reckoning, if the deal fell through, it was best that no one know of it,
sporting of her or not.
Unfortunately,
Mammon apparently felt he had squandered enough largesse on his devotee, and
that capricious god did not appreciate Elizabeth’s greed. The letter
contained the unhappy news that the customer who had caused Caldenova and Son,
Limited, to make the initial offer had been able to purchase a somewhat larger
parcel of shares from another party at a lower price. Therefore, the firm
was only able to offer Mrs Mapp-Flint the sum of four thousand, five hundred
pounds, and would she please reply as soon as possible, as the offer expired as
soon as the firm was able to obtain the required number of shares, either from
herself or from another source, for their customer’s portfolio.
Elizabeth
ground her teeth in impotent frustration; had she accepted the offer
immediately by telegram, she would have gotten the five thousand pounds.
But she had dared once again to gamble and it had cost her five hundred
pounds. Rather than risk losing more of her new-found wealth, Elizabeth
trotted into Tilling as fast as a woman of her girth and stature could do, and
sent a telegram accepting the sum named. She then realized that she could
have placed a trunk call from Grebe which, though expensive, would ensure her
capital gain. So instead of stopping to talk with Diva, who was eager to
gossip, Elizabeth waggled her hand at her friend and trotted back to Grebe
where, despite being completely out of breath, she immediately made her
call.
When the young
broker who handled the call reported the transaction to his superior, he
vulgarly said, “The old girl was so excited at selling that she was quite out
of breath.”
“Indeed,”
responded Mr Caldenova (the son). “His Majesty will be pleased to know
we’ve managed to gain the shares at such a reasonably small outlay.”
The junior
broker said forlornly, “The Gold Standard, Sir, the Gold Standard,” and
mournfully shook his head.
THE END
Note:
Thank you to Deryck Solomon, whose
short story “The Sardine Tartlet Poisoner” inspired me. If you are
unfamiliar with Tilling’s Inspector Morrison, please visit
The drawing of the kitchen is from the 1930s (although I doubt that the cooks at Mallards House or at Grebe would be wearing high heels).
Should you wish to refit your kitchen with
retro-appliances, the legend on the photo of the 1930s gas range, which is for
sale, reads: “Features include 4 top burners, an oven, broiler, 2 storage
drawers, a light and a mechanical timer. A folding cover conceals the cook top
when not in use. The oven is match-lit, and the top burners have a
standing pilot light. White porcelain enamel with black detailing. 42"w x
50"h.” You can find this and similar ranges by searching
Google Images for “1930s appliances.” Apparently, retro-fitting a kitchen
is popular.
Once again, I have taken my illustrations
from Google Images, and I was unable to ascertain the copyright status on most
of the images:
“The Worship of Mammon” is by Evelyn De
Morgan, 1909,
The Champagne poster is by Paul Iribe,
1932,
Portrait of King George VI is by Arthur
Szyk, 1938.
Text copyright 2011 Kathleen Bradford
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