By Kathleen Bradford, based upon characters created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt, Guy Fraser-Sampson and Deryck Solomon. These slices of Tilling life take place in 2012, but with the characters the same age as in Lucia Triumphant.
So, if Tilling is alive and ageless, what would its denizens be doing today?
So, if Tilling is alive and ageless, what would its denizens be doing today?
Isabel Poppit rides her titanium bicycle to Zumba class, which she teaches at the Yoga Co-op (her Pilates class has lost it popular appeal). She founded the Co-op with the Guru, who has reformed and leads meetings which begin with: “My name is Guru, and I’m an alcoholic.” As part of “The Program," the Guru has offered restitution to Lucia and Georgie for his burglary of their houses in Riseholme so many years ago, and also to “that kind lady Mrs Quantock who gave me a room and her husband who likes my cooking.” Lucia and Georgie generously forgave the Guru without any payment, and the Guru praises the beautiful white light of their combined auras. The Quantocks have him on a payment plan.
Isabel is happily using the latest in juicer technology (a gift from her mother), drinking odd combinations of vegetable and fruit juice, and either composting the remains or having the Guru make them into delicious vegan curries.
Isabel always wears yoga pants and a sports bra; fortunately, she looks good in them—in fact, Major Benjy has been known to stumble over the cobbles and lose his train of thought in the middle of a sentence because his eyes and attention have been drawn to Isabel’s fit body as she cycles past.
~~~~~~~~~~
Quaint Irene scoffs at digital art. Just to show her beloved Lucia how easy and unimaginative it is, compared to “Real Art with a Paint Brush,” Irene worked up an image of how she believes Elizabeth and Benjy look when “tastefully nude.” Irene’s digital work of art depicts Mrs Mapp-Flint trying to cover herself with her hands, while Major Benjy looks at a laptop showing East Indian porn and ignores his wife. Irene entitled the work, “The Pride of Poona.”
“But why depict them as completely nude?” asks a very embarrassed, blushing Georgie.
“So that they don’t show up at my next exhibition, of course!” responds Irene, so very quaintly. “Besides, you don’t see any of the pertinent bits.”
“Thank Goodness!” says Georgie spontaneously. Irene laughs heartily at that, and Georgie laughs, too, after realizing that he has just said something witty, which will certainly be faithfully mimicked by Irene in front of their mutual friends during marketing hour.
Before Lucia sees this digital work of art or is told about it by Georgie, Irene impulsively takes her demonstration a step further and submits the image via email to several digital art contests. To her surprise, she wins the International Award in Digital Art, as well as the Lumen Prize. The critics praise Irene’s “deft handling of and satire about the problems caused in everyday life by internet pornography.”
“It just goes to show the lack of taste people have these days,” a grimacing Irene complains to Lucia.
“The blame is entirely upon Page Three,” replies Lucia, with a feministic glint in her eye. “Just think, Irene dear, how much you and I have accomplished in our lives, all without removing our clothing.”
“Yes. But I’ve removed a lot of other people’s clothing,” says Irene; then realizing that she may have offended Lucia, Irene waves her paint brush in the air and proclaims, “But only in the interest of Art!”
~~~~~~~~~~
Mr Wyse is trying to break himself of the habit of bowing to his friends on Facebook.
“Really, Algernon,” says the Contessa; “it isn’t as if they’re actually in the room with you.” The siblings were about to begin “breakfast,” since it was just past noon.
“Alas, dear sister, it appears that what began as a polite mannerism has become an obsessive-compulsive trait,” he replies. “Susan read an article to me about such actions just last week. And I understand one of our cousins in Whitchurch also suffers some similar traits.”
Mrs Wyse enters the room, her M.B.E. pinned to the bosom of her casual, but designer-made, dress.
“How is Isabel these days?” the Contessa inquires.
“Still working at her Yoga Co-op,” replies Susan Wyse.
“A great success, I’m told,” says the Contessa, and then she unpleasantly adds, “And is she still living with that Guru person?”
Susan’s mouth tightens a little and the corners turn down. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Mr Wyse intervenes. “Do not be upset, dear Susan; Isabel is simply engaging in a multicultural relationship. I understand that young women of quite good family in London are taking up with men from the subcontinent and from the Arabian countries. Even the Duchess of Cambridge’s sister has been seen in the company of a fine young man from a middle-eastern royal family.”
“Well, there IS that,” says Susan, mollified.
The Contessa suppresses a smile. “So long as he’s not a supporter of Manchester United,” she says.
~~~~~~~~~~
At the Vicarage, the Bartletts are discussing, generally, the financial woes of the Church of England and, specifically, the financial woes of the Church of Tilling. The Padre is so upset that he completely forgets to speak in his usual Scottish-Elizabethan language, “Attendance has fallen off despite everything we try.”
Evie squeaks in reply. Then she realizes that a better response is expected and calmly says, “Surely it’s not as bad as that.” She looks at her husband’s drawn and worried expression and suggests, “Perhaps we can get that nice Ian Anderson to do a Christmas concert and give us the proceeds; Our Church has better acoustics than any cathedral.”
But the Padre will not to be led away from his chosen discourse by aged rock stars. Whenever another elderly singer made an appearance on the television, which Evie never missed, that singer was either whispering or croaking, and definitely not sounding like he sounded in youth. Such displays made the Padre think of a parody of the poetry of Lewis Carroll: “I’ll sing you anything I can, there’s little to relate, I met an aged, aged rock star, a-sitting on a gate.” A parody of a parody seems appropriate. Pushing aside any and all aged rock stars, the Reverend Kenneth Bartlett says, “It’s these awful scandals. To think that a Scottish Bishop could behave in such a manner! It reflects badly on all of us. I’m almost afraid to be alone with a choirboy. If mud spatters one of us, it spatters us all.”
“You’ll be all right if you have another adult nearby,” says Evie, “and keep your hands where everyone can see them. You might try to break the habit of talking Scottish: Elizabethan English, yes, Scottish, no. You might try Irish again.”
“Welsh.” Says the Padre decisively. “A great nation for poetic expression. On our next vacation, we’ll go to Cardiff for the Eisteddfod.”
“I thought you might want to do that,” replied his help-meet, “when I saw you reading Y Gododdin. Perhaps a long weekend at Catterick, too? If we can get a good summer let for the Vicarage, that is.”
At last allowing himself to be distracted from more distressing subjects, the Padre teases his wife, “Who knows—perhaps that actor that you so admire will be in Cardiff. Rhys Meyers—a good Welsh name.”
Evie, who had not realized until that moment that her husband knew exactly why she asked for the complete DVD set of “The Tudors” for Christmas, blushes and emits a small squeak, followed by a dreamy sigh.
“Welsh it is,” says the Padre with a twinkle in his eye. “And how do I contact that Anderson fellow?”
~~~~~~~~~~
Always the same old thing, thought Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint from behind his newspaper. Not enough money coming in, she says. Does the old girl not realize that I know better? Why, I found her account book when I was looking for a flask that I know I hid somewhere and forgot. Plenty of cash on hand, enough to cover my wine merchant’s bill for a year--
“. . . the problem is, Benjy-boy, that the bees have died. That horrid disease is killing bees all over England. There will be no income from honey or royal jelly or pollination this year,” Elizabeth Mapp-Flint droned on. “Without the pollination, we’ll have fewer fruits and vegetables to sell to Twistevant.”
We’ll have less?” She means she’ll have less, I never see a penny of the proceeds, thought Major Benjy sourly. He laid aside the newspaper, behind which he had been attempting to hide from his wife, as he did every morning. He bravely plunged into a subject deeper and murkier than Mr Kipling's great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo River. (A river known to harbour bilharzia.)
“Well, Girly, there’s always my idea about the vineyard. Get some start-up capitol, buy a few old oak barrels, and in a couple of years we’ll be hosting wine tastings. Wine tasting is very popular with nobs.” Major Benjy almost added, and with the gay rainbow but stopped himself. Every time he facetiously or scornfully mentioned “The Gay Rainbow,” his wife would primly glance at her collection of Tilling pottery pigs and feign utter ignorance. Must find some other disparaging term for Them, thought Major Benjy. Perhaps I can shove Miss Milliner Michelangelo out of the closet somehow; that would be fun. But maybe not; Mallards House and Starling Cottage are the only places a man can get a decent meal these days, or sneak a decent drink past the ole-ball-and-chain. And Thank Gawd for Irene and her bottle of “turpentine” gin. Always a good sport, that Irene. I wonder about her, too, though.
Major Benjy shoved the last crust of toast into his mouth and stood. Swallowing quickly, he announced, as he did every morning, “I’m off to golf.”
“Play beautifully, darling,” said Elizabeth absently, as she did every morning. She had long ago given up trying to get her husband to help with her ever-expanding market garden and had hired-in help. There had been a heated argument over the garden earnings after Major Benjy had “helped out” for a month—he thought he was entitled to some of the money, his wife disagreed, and no splitting the difference would work. And to Elizabeth’s way of thinking, Ladies did not labour in market gardens; Ladies had beautiful flower gardens with an adjacent kitchen garden hidden behind a wall. Ladies lived in historic homes with such gardens, in Grade II homes like Mallards, which she had lost to the conniving Lucia; the loss of her home was bad enough without her husband thinking of her as farmer labourer instead of as a Lady. Best he not be part of the business.
~~~~~~~~~~
Any time Elizabeth mentioned the lovely butterflies enjoying the blooms on her strawberry plants, or how gaily the blossoms on her fruit trees were dancing in the spring wind, or how sad she was over the death of her lovely, busy bees, Elizabeth’s dear friend Mrs Godiva Plaistow snorted. Once, after a particularly ferocious snort, Elizabeth suggested that Diva should see the local horse doctor about it, but her wit had been acknowledged with yet another snort and thus had been wasted.
Practical Diva knew that if Elizabeth was talking about her blooms and blossoms and bees, she was reckoning up the harvest she would rake in (literally as well as figuratively) and how much she would charge Twistevant, the greengrocer, for her “picked fresh every morning” produce. All Elizabeth had said after getting her bee hives was that the gardener would have to attend to them, for the bees always seemed to swarm out and “maliciously” sting her, as if she intended to harm their queen; Diva quite understood the bees’ reaction.
And Diva had gotten fed up with Elizabeth coming into Ye Olde Tea House and casting aspersions about the food, which Diva and her business partner Janet made and served, saying, “How delicious MY strawberries are this year!” or “What wonderful greengages from MY garden!” or “Oh! MY lovely fresh greens in this salad—are the walnuts from MY garden, too?” even though Grebe had no walnut trees. Elizabeth seemed to think that she, herself, provided all the food, with no thought to the fact that Diva (and Janet) had to purchase the ingredients and do all the food preparation and cooking; it was becoming quite annoying. I wouldn’t be surprised if she started claiming she made the Stilton in the garage at Grebe, thought Diva.
Also, Elizabeth only came to Ye Olde Tea House as someone else’s guest, never as hostess and never as a customer. Elizabeth had tea-and-bridge at Grebe only as often as required in order to maintain her position in Tilling society, or for some under-handed reason (usually to do with thwarting the Worshipful Lucia Pillson), and it was always in the winter when the journey to Grebe was cold and wet and Elizabeth’s garden was fallow (except for her cauliflower and Brussels sprouts and broccoli and cabbage), and Elizabeth had entirely given up providing dinner for her friends, leaving that more expensive entertainment to the Pillsons and the Wyses.
This year I wouldn’t be surprised if Elizabeth held absolutely no tea-and-bridge parties at all, what with the new cold frames she’s been gassing about, and her “cole crops,” whatever they are, thought Diva, as she savagely slashed at a radish, creating a perfect radish rose in spite of the intensity of her feelings. As cheap and greedy as Elizabeth is, I’m surprised that she doesn’t put up greenhouses and grow hashish, or plant a field full of opium poppies, so Diva’s train of thought continued, and hire illegal workers at slave wages . . .
Diva suddenly stopped assailing the radishes. I wonder, I just wonder . . . only Elizabeth’s head gardener is local . . . I wonder where the other workers are from . . . probably someplace unsavoury and foreign, like Pakistan or Jamaica or Glasgow. . . .
Janet (who had been Diva’s maid for years before buying into the business) said, “Ma’am, we’ll need a dozen more radish roses, at least,” and Diva resumed her assault.
~~~~~~~~~~
Georgie Pillson is the author of the best-selling book about The New Celibacy. He had protested, “Celibacy isn’t new! It’s as old as, well, as old as the Old Testament!” (which was the oldest book that he could think of). But Lucia explained that he had put a new twist into an old idea and he agreed to publish.
In an interview, Georgie said, “I was reading a magazine article how highly sexualized the media is, and I realized that adults, like myself, who are celibate are considered strange and so they don’t want to admit it--being celibate, not being strange. I decided that we who don’t want or don't need sex in this highly-sexualized society should be allowed to say so without fear. Although I’m not a writer, I began writing out my thoughts on celibacy, and all the things I can do because my energy isn’t diverted into, or heavily invested in, sexual pursuits.”
Lucia, of course, read and edited the book, which Georgie entitled, The Celibate Life; she tried to re-title it, Embracing the New Celibacy, and had to use her powers of persuasion to get Georgie to change the title. Knowing that arguing with his wife would be a complete waste of the energy he stored up by not having sex, Georgie came to an agreement with her; the book was released with the title: The Celibate Life—Essays on Embracing the New Celibacy.
The author had his photo taken in front of the Ye Olde Tea House sign—“So good to help advertise for Diva’s little business and Irene’s sign painting,” Lucia said approvingly—and the back flap of the dust jacket showed a youthful and energy-filled Georgie, nattily dressed in the latest style of crushed-strawberry-coloured pants and an oatmeal-coloured jacket, holding his boater with the Cambridge blue band. His luxuriant auburn hair looked “as nice as that of a model in a shampoo advertisement,” as Mr Wyse kindly stated.
This book was almost completely ignored during the first weeks after its release, despite the efforts of Georgie’s friend, the Prima Donna Olga Bracely, who was also instrumental in getting it published to begin with. At a book signing, Olga brought all her friends and bribed her less-enthusiastic acquaintances to line up for the author’s signature. Lucia sent postcards to everyone she had met during her London Season and bribed her less-enthusiastic acquaintances to line up for the author’s signature, too. Georgie was none the wiser, and he was delighted with the turn out. However, that one day was the apex of the initial book sales, as feigned interest wanes quickly. No reviewer would review it.
Georgie’s celebrity as an author began when a Church School Administrator, who had not read beyond than the blurb on the front flap of the dust jacket, invited Georgie to speak at a school assembly. That particular week, Lucia was being remarkably insufferable over boring political matters, and although Edinburgh was a long train ride away, Georgie accepted the invitation.
He worked wrote up a speech, making it short because “teens have no attention span to speak of, or speak to.” He boarded the train, with his loyal personal assistant Foljambe in attendance, waved goodbye to Lucia, (and incidentally to Cadman, who was Foljambe’s husband and Lucia’s driver) and began his journey northward.
Georgie found his greeting by a junior member of the school staff to be adequate, although he did wonder why the Administrator who had issued the invitation had not met him at the station. However, his suite at the Balmoral Hotel was quite pleasant, with a fire laid in the fireplace, and the tea served en-suite was refreshing. So it was with a light heart that Georgie went to speak to the afternoon assembly at the school.
It was unfortunate that, although Georgie was in favour of celibacy for adults who wished it, his philosophy had not considered or extended to the sex drive of teen-agers. Lucia’s editing of the book had not taken the “broad view” that she so often exhorted her spouse and friends to encompass. Hence, Georgie’s short speech simply stated that those who wanted to be celibate should be so, without needing to make excuses; there was no mention of chastity, which the Administrator had assumed would be the jist of the speech. Georgie’s speech was heartily applauded by the randy teens who comprise the school body, in part because of the obvious discomfort (or amusement) it caused their teachers and school officials.
The Administrator who had invited him to speak felt impelled to address some stern and presbyterian remarks to everyone after Georgie had left the podium.
Georgie's speech as well as the Administrator’s remarks were secretly recorded on an iPhone and posted on You Tube. That video was shown by one of the teens to his father, who was the editor for one of the foremost conservative newspapers. The newspaper’s blistering editorial diatribe against Georgie, his speech, his book, his crushed-strawberry dungarees, and sex in general was picked up and reprinted throughout the European Union. This engendered dissenting articles in the liberal press and debates about “The New Celibacy” on television and radio. It also caused the illicit video to go viral.
Book sales spiked, and The Celibate Life, copies of which were just about to be placed upon the discounted and remaindered books table, was reprinted three times before the controversy and the sales fell off. Overnight, Georgie Pillson went from being merely an author to being a "controversial author"; but after his unhappy speaking experience, he refused invitations to appear on television, on the radio, and he refused all requests for interviews as well.
In Tilling’s High Street, tongues wagged. “Two weeks on the best-seller list!” exclaimed Elizabeth Mapp-Flint to Diva, her tone full of disgust. She continued, “Although I haven’t read the book, my Benjy-boy looked at it, and I understand that it advocates immorality!”
“Haven’t read it, either,” said Diva, “but Mr Georgie explained it to me. He’s just saying that, if someone doesn’t want to have sex, they shouldn’t be made to feel odd about it. And gives some examples of how advertising forces sex on us.”
Since there was no support from Diva, Elizabeth (thanking God that Quaint Irene was not present) turned to the Padre, certain that he would take her view. But the Padre, who had read the book (personally inscribed by the author and provided to him, as to all of Tilling society, as a gift), mildly stated that the book was just as Diva had said.
Susan Wyse chipped in, “My sister-in-law, the Contessa di Faraglione, says it’s quite decent and so she found it rather dull. But then, she is accustomed to the jet-set lifestyle.” The Contessa was one of those “roped in” and had stood in line at a London bookstore for Georgie’s autograph. She never intended to read the book, but on a flight from Rome to Heathrow, she found that she had already seen the in-flight movie (a comedy called “Sixty-Six”, which had proved amusing “in spite of that dreadful Helena Bonham Carter being in it”) and so she had nothing better to do than read.
Mr Wyse had “read” the book only by skimming through it, but he had read with a certain gusto all of the articles condemning and praising it, said, “Dear Lady, it is the press that has created to controversy. The book itself, as well as Mr Pillson’s ideas therein, are surely not immoral.” This gentle rebuke ended the conversation.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lucia Pillson’s energies, and since she was married to the celibate Georgie, her energies were enormous, were mostly aimed at hindering the growth of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s business and, thus, frustrating Eizabeth Mapp-Flint.
When they met on the High Street during marketing hour, instead of asking the usual question, “What’s new?” Lucia began to ask Elizabeth, “How’s business?” Elizabeth had always considered herself superior to Diva, and Lucia's greeting reminded her that both she and Diva were now merely tradesmen, or trades-women. It galled Elizabeth more than being called “Lib-Lib” in answer to her addressing Lucia as “LuLu.” For Elizabeth had always wanted to be thought of as a Lady; and now being merely a Lady (in her own eyes, anyway) was not enough, for she sought to be a Land-owner, perhaps even considered "County."
When Elizabeth wanted to purchase a parcel of land adjacent to Grebe, Lucia tried to out-bid her; unfortunately, the Tilling grapevine failed, and Lucia learned of the purchase too late: a binding contract had already been signed. Elizabeth was elated by her success when she learned of Lucia’s failed attempt to subvert her land purchase.
Elizabeth purchased several hives of bees and had them put them up in her garden. As she watched “my gardening staff” work, all she saw were the sweet, golden profits she would make from the honey. When she learned that there was also a market for the royal jelly and the beeswax, which were more valuable than the honey, she was even more buoyant.
Drunk on the heady wine of victory and the expectation of financial gain, she treated her Benjy-boy to a sumptuous meal that began with paté de fois gras with a glass of mediocre champagne, followed by Lobster a la Riseholme with a glass of white wine, followed by rare roast-beef and a sound burgundy, and culminating in crème brulè and brandy. Benjy was hoping for a glass of good port to round out the unusually delicious and nearly decadent meal (by Grebe’s standard of catering), but he was disappointed. He quickly helped himself to a chota peg when Elizabeth excused herself for a moment after the happy couple had adjourned to the sitting room.
Since her marriage to Major Benjy, Elizabeth was usually irritable in the morning but endeavoured to hide it with her wide smile and by humming a tune, especially if one of the maids was in the room. Unaccustomed to the amount of alcohol she had consumed with dinner, Elizabeth had a headache the next morning and was openly irritable at breakfast. The morning post made things worse. The was a letter from the Planning Council which cited the fact that she had built beehives on her property without obtaining Council permission; a large fine was imposed and a deadline to pay was named. However, the letter informed her, the hives may remain until an environmental study had been completed; if the study was in her favour, the fine would be rescinded, if against, the hives would have to be removed.
At first Elizabeth was as stunned as a bee in a freezer. A fine! Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, former council member and current Mayoress of Tilling, was being fined! She would have to call Lucia and find out what this was about, and if possible, get out of having to pay. No longer stunned, now she was angry. The Council! Why, it was Lucia herself who put them up to it! Elizabeth’s habitual rage took over. Without planning what she would say, and ignoring the fact that it was far too early in the day for making a call, she picked up the telephone and dialled Mallards House. Elizabeth breathed heavily through her nose, trying to calm herself. Soon Lucia was on the line.
At first Elizabeth tried ignorance. “Dear Worship. There is a matter that has come before me that I really do not understand. I had a rather shocking letter from the Planning Council this morning. Something about my dear little beehives. . . .” she paused.
“Indeed?” said Lucia, and she said no more.
Elizabeth continued with ignorance, and tried to enhance it by using her best wheedling tone of voice. “But Dear Worship, I’m not sure I understand. May I not keep bees in my own garden? Surely something can be done. . . .”
“I fear not,” Lucia intoned unsympathetically, “the Planning Council was quite firm. They insisted that a fine be imposed. The statute is quite clear, I’m afraid. A resident must obtain permission from the Council and from their nearest neighbours before beehives can be installed. Also before a kennel, or a racetrack for horses or for vehicles, can be installed, so it is not just bees, dear Elizabeth.”
Ignorance and wheedling were abandoned. “Is there nothing that can be done?” was delivered through tight lips, and each of Elizabeth’s words pinged like hail on a metal roof.
“I fear not,” repeated Lucia. “I did search the statutes—” so she did know! thought Elizabeth, “—but I found nothing that will help. So sorry.”
“But you’re Mayor! And I’m your Mayoress! You must do something!” demanded Elizabeth.
Lucia became Magisterial. “There is nothing I can do unofficially, as I am just a citizen of Tilling. There is nothing I can do officially, as I would be compromising the integrity of the Office of Mayor and betraying the trust of my fellow citizens.” Lucia continued, “No, Elizabeth, nothing can be done.”
“My solicitor shall hear about this!” threatened Elizabeth.
“But, dear Elizabeth, your solicitor is a member of the Planning Council,” Lucia pointed out in her most reasonable voice, but her words were wasted, for Elizabeth had ended the call.
Elizabeth had learned her lesson, not only the hard way, but the expensive way as well. And so she sent a letter to the Planning Council and sought permission to install cold frames so that she could grow winter vegetables. The Chairman of that august body wrote back and stated that a study must be completed and an environmental impact statement must be prepared by the appropriate government officials before permission could be granted.
Once again, Elizabeth unwittingly hindered her own cause, for when in the public Council meeting Lucia repeated that the government must make a study and submit a report, Elizabeth became enraged. Her eyes bulged and rolled like those of a Pamplona bull, and her lips lost their colour as she smiled so widely that she looked like a depraved model in a tooth-whitening commercial. The sight of her face made many cringe and look away. Elizabeth made her own demand: in addition to the government report, a private environmental agency of her own choosing must conduct a separate study and file their report, and both reports must be considered in the Council’s decision.
Lucia’s calm was more than equal to Elizabeth’s rage. Mayor Pillson immediately confirmed that, “Certainly, a private study must be conducted if the applicant so desires, but it must be completed at the applicant’s expense. All in favour? Motion carried.” It was done so quickly that angry Elizabeth did not quite register what had happened. The Worshipful Lucia addressed Elizabeth directly, stating that the Town Clerk would notify her by mail as to the deadline for both reports to be submitted, with the government office setting the date: “After all, we know how slow the government is on these things,” Lucia drawled, and caused laughter. Before Elizabeth’s rage allowed her to think, she was committed to provide a report that would no doubt be ruinously expensive, or she would have to publicly concede that Lucia was victorious in the matter.
When she received the letter from the Town Clerk naming the deadline, a calmer Elizabeth googled “private environmental agency” and called the first one listed. No, they would not be able to complete such a study and submit such a report within the time frame, but if Mrs Mapp-Flint wished to apply for an extension . . . . It dawned on Elizabeth that this just might be her way out of the situation. She called the second business on the list, and she got much the same answer.
With a great sense of relief, she called the third agency, and was told that they would be delighted to handle the study and provide a report and, although the deadline was so soon, they could probably manage it.
Drat, thought Elizabeth, using one of Diva’s words. Then an idea occurred to her: How much do they charge for such a study and the report? Oh, dear, that was much more than she had anticipated. Would they be willing to accept payments? Oh, half upon beginning the study and half upon delivery of the report? You cannot allow credit? *Sigh* If that’s how it must be, then so be it; but thank you for your time. Elizabeth ended the call, sat back, and smiled.
THE END
Copyright 2013 Kathleen Bradford. All rights reserved.
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