Susan and I have been married for several years now. Before our marriage, I was, for eight months of the year, in Tilling, but I was never OF Tilling, something Miss Mapp never let me forget. She sometimes implied that marrying her would make me a true resident of Tilling; since marriage to her would be an extreme penance for the dubious joy of being accepted, I never pursued it. Poor Major Benjy, married to Miss Mapp, utter torture.
But after I met Susan, after our marriage, I was considered a Tillingite, which is odd, as Susan was a recent incomer.
And we have so much in common, our connections, our love of comfort, our love of comfortable travel, our love of the beautiful in art and in food, in clothing and in wine. My life has become so much more comfortable since we married. I must remember to tell Susan that. No more being encouraged to hope, since my hopes have been amply fulfilled.
She is proud of my connection to Italian nobility through my sister Amelia, the Contessa di Faraglione, (had Mr Wyse been standing, he would have bowed to the Contessa) and of my being one of the Wyses of Whitchurch, a county family, older than the ennobled branch of my family.
I am proud of her M.B.E., of her excellent skills as a hostess--no guest will ever leave hungry from Starling Cottage. I am even proud of my step-daughter Isabel, her independence, her courage in living in a manner that grants her happiness.
Susan happily travels with me to Capri to visit my sister, sometimes by ship, sometimes in her Rolls-Royce. And to Whitchurch. And to visit Toddy, my childhood friend, now retired from being Vice-Admiral in His Majesty's Navy. (Had Mr Wyse been standing, he would have bowed to His Majesty's Navy.) Shame about him being unable to walk now, yet he still invites us to visit him in Scotland every October or November--why, last year our fellow guest was Mountbatten himself. (Had Mr Wyse been standing, he would have bowed to Mountbatten.) Excellent fishing--wonderful salmon--and shooting, though I usually miss.
Mr Wyse, as was his habit, sniffed the ethers of his brandy, took a drink, held the brandy in his mouth for a moment, savouring the flavor, and then swallowed. He sat his empty glass aside and looked at the fire.
Yes, Mountbatten himself, although Mrs Mapp-Flint refuses to believe it, in spite of the photograph of Mountbatten, myself, and Susan in the forecourt at Toddy's. Mrs Mapp-Flint said to Mrs Plaistow that it must be one of the beaters who resembled Mountbatten, not the man himself; mean-spirited woman, thinks because she lies that everyone else does as well. I thank God that my Susan is not like that--no good at lying, my Susan.
Yes, Susan is soft and warm and comfortable, she knows what's important in life.
And bridge, we both like a nice rubber after tea or after dinner.
I must contact a jeweler in London and find something nice for her. Something that will go with her extraordinary eyes. Odd that, her eyes are dark and I never saw their true beauty until I viewed them close up.
Suddenly an idea jolted Mr Wyse back into consciousness. A portrait. Yes, we must have our portrait painted, or, at least, be photographed. Yes. But by whom?
Madame Mayor will know.
~~~~~~~~~~
Madame Mayor, also known as Lucia Pillson or Your Worship, was Tilling's first female mayor. When the Wyses came to call on her in the garden room of her home Mallards House, she was with Quaint Irene Coles, Tilling's resident socialist and Royal Academy-recognized artist. Irene offered to leave, but Mr Wyse said, "No, Miss Coles, your opinion will be just as invaluable as that of Mayor Pillson; we were, in fact, coming to visit you at Taromina after we left the Mayor, and your presence allows us to take care of two birds with one stone, as it is said in the proverb."
"What do you want to know," asked Irene in her usual abrupt manner.
"Mr Wyse and I have decided to have our portrait painted, for our upcoming anniversary," began Mrs Wyse.
"But we are at a loss as to which artist we should approach and thought you both may have recommendations for us," finished Mr Wyse.
"Barbara Hepworth." Irene said this instantly. "She can sculpt you and you can install her work in the garden at Starling Cottage."
The Wyses, in their perusal of art magazines, had seen the works of Miss Hepworth. "We hope for something more traditional, I afraid," said Susan. She did not want to be represented by oddly shaped black blocks.
"You could go to Paris and see if Tamara de Lempicka will paint you," suggested Irene. Mr Wyse made careful note of the name.
"We considered the painter Mark Gertler, since his painting of the Queen of Sheba quite resembles Mrs Wyse," said Mr Wyse, bowing in turn to Gertler, Sheba, and Susan Wyse. Although slightly embarrassed and hoping no one would realize that the Queen of Sheba was nude, Mrs Wyse nodded, for the painting was her idealized self.
"Nope, Gertler's cracked. I met him last year. Still totally cracked over Dora Carrington's suicide years ago. Mind you, Dora Carrington was worth getting cracked over," said Irene. Sometimes her abruptness was quite trying. Mr Wyse remembered the scandal and he saw nothing romantic in Carrington shooting herself but forbore to say so.
"Now, Irene. Perhaps it would be better if we suggested someone with experience making portraits of London Society?" interjected Lucia.
Mr Wyse bowed, "Indeed, that is just what we are looking for, Your Worship." Mrs Wyse murmured in agreement.
Lucia's husband Georgie was great friends with Olga Bracely, the Prima Donna. While this friendship was a source of jealousy for Lucia, it also had provided many distinctive rewards for her. Some months ago, Georgie had said that Olga had been photographed by Cecil Beaton and Georgie had shown Lucia some examples of his photography in Vogue. Lucia had recently read that Mr Beaton had returned to London from New York recently. "Portrait photography is an art that is coming into its own. Having Mr Beaton photograph you would put you on the cutting edge," said Lucia.
Irene nodded in agreement, "Not just for cinema stars anymore."
And then there was Lucia's friend Lady Adele Brixton. Adele had sent Lucia a letter stating she had been photographed by Mr Beaton, and that Marcia, Duchess of Whitby, had been unable to get Mr Beaton to photograph her. Marcia had snubbed him in the past by refusing to invite him to her parties. Lucia knew all too well how that was, having been excluded herself by darling Duchess Marcia.
Mr Wyse made careful note of Beaton's name, bowed to Lucia and then to Irene, and the Wyses took their leave. If Mr Beaton could refuse to photograph a Duchess, then he most certainly must be elegant and discriminating.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mr Wyse sent a letter to Beaton, using his own notepaper instead of sheets purloined from his sister, which contained her title and her address in Capri, and which Mr Wyse had gotten into the habit of using after hearing that Elizabeth Mapp, now Mapp-Flint, had doubted the existence of the Contessa di Faraglione.
He wrote, "Friends of a friend, namely Prima Donna Olga Bracely and Lady Adele Brixton, have praised your work. Mrs Lucia Pillson, Mayor of Tilling, has encouraged me to hope that you would be willing to execute a portrait of myself and Mrs Wyse in celebration of our anniversary. Should you be willing to accept this commission, please have your secretary send details as to the date and the amount of time you will need, so that we can arrange to be in London and at your disposal during that time. And if you are unable to accept this commission, perhaps you kindly could recommend someone who would be willing to undertake this task."
"Who are these people?" Beaton asked.
Olga Bracely looked up from her glass of vermouth and replied, "They're very nice people. If you work for them you can expect to be fed well on delicacies and rare wines. He has some connection to Italian nobility and she has an M.B.E., which she sometimes wears, and she always wears her sables, even when it's broiling hot."
"No! How utterly bourgeois!" exclaimed a delighted Beaton, "True snobs seem to be so rare these days. Too many Socialists about."
"You must not be unkind. I'm not sure that they are snobs; I think that they just enjoy the good things in life and can afford to do so. Mr Wyse seems to have stepped directly out of Chesterfield's letters. Bows a lot. Both dress well, and eat well, and feed their guests well, and they can pay you well. Easy money, I'd call it."
"I need easy money at the moment. Since that debacle in New York, no fashion houses will hire me," Beaton paused and then sighed. One small indiscretion, he thought, and the fashion world turns against you.
"Then quit photographing fashion and begin photographing the fashionable," said Olga, "You can begin with that snubbing Duchess. And I'll sound out Princess Isabel as to whether she'd be interested."
"Thank you, Olga. I shall arrange for these Wyses to come up to town. And ask them to bring the M.B.E. and the sable coat. What else?"
"Call the Duchess."
"Yes, I will. I'm almost out of vermouth, by the way."
~~~~~~~~~~
The Wyses were gratified that Mr Beaton was willing to accept their commission. Susan Wyse told her friends during shopping hour that Mr Beaton somehow knew about her M.B.E. and her sables, as he had asked that the Wyses bring them for the photo.
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint smiled widely and said sweetly, "Too kind of him, taking notice of poor little Tillingites."
Later, after stopping off at Diva Plaistow's home, Elizabeth said, "I doubt that photographer wrote that about the M.B.E. and the coat. How could he know?"
"Mr Wyse showed me the letter, and Mr Beaton did write that. You're too suspicious for your own good, Elizabeth," replied Diva.
"Are you certain that the Wyses did not write that letter," Elizabeth almost said "forged that letter" but stopped herself just in time, "To make themselves look important?"
"Most unlikely. Wasn't written on Villa Faraglione stationery," replied Diva.
"We shall see, that's all I have to say about it."
Thinking that Elizabeth had said quite enough rude things about the Wyses for one day, Diva began moving around the room, arranging tables and cutlery, for Ye Olde Tea House was about to open: a few hours a day on a few days each week, Diva's house called Wasters became Ye Olde Tea House. Diva ignored Elizabeth and was rewarded by hearing her front door slam as Elizabeth left. Don't know why she's so nasty about the Wyses, thought Diva, They host a lot of bridge and dinners and luncheons. But Elizabeth can be hateful about most things. It's always "poor Susan" this and "poor Susan" that; Susan isn't poor at all, I think Susan's okay; no need to be nasty. Jealousy, that's what it is; jealousy and spite.
~~~~~~~~~~
"London's been dreadfully dull," said Mr Beaton, meaning that London had not paid off as well as he had hoped, as the Duchess of Whitby was in Le Touquet for a fortnight. "Do you think a week in Tilling would yield more results?"
"Tilling would be delighted to have you!" said Olga, who had two bottles of vermouth with her, one dry and one sweet. "In fact, I can arrange for you to stay with the Mayor. She and her husband will be thrilled. Lucia Pillson is a snob extradinare! You'll enjoy her, and you'll have the best of everything."
"Then I will notify these Wyses of a change in plans. They needn't come to London, I'll come to them," said Beaton.
"I'll call Tilling, Cecil, and arrange for you to stay," said Olga.
"Yes, do, thank you. But from your house, not mine, please," was the reply, for money was in short supply.
Olga started to bring up the subject of money, but bit her tongue as she did not want to insult her friend. "Then let us go to my little house in Brompton Square. You'll stay to tea, won't you?"
"Delighted!"
As Olga and Beaton exited the taxi at Brompton Square, Olga pointed across to number 25. "Lucia Pillson, who you're going to stay with in Tilling, once owned it; had a wonderful Season, then her husband got sick and she had to chuck it all."
"Oh my dear! Has her last name changed since then? I remember going to tea and dinner there with a Mrs Philip Lucas, who was called Lucia. She had a country home in the Cotswolds, I believe. Great friends with Tony Limpsfield. Same person, or just coincidence?"
"Same one! Imagine that, you already know her!" cried Olga as they entered her house.
"You must fill me in on her and her name change before I leave."
"I shall do so. And I must have time to think how best to put it to Lucia. You see, I'm more a friend of her husband--"
"No!" Mr Beaton interrupted, wildly interested.
"Yes! Georgie Pillson's a kind man and pleasure to be with. And Lucia rather resents our friendship. So I don't want to jump in and foul things up for you. I'll call Tilling after lunch."
~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning in Tilling's High Street, the husband of the Mayor, Mr Georgie Pillson had great news. First, he sought out the Wyses. "Mr Beaton is coming to Tilling and staying with us at Mallards House, so you won't have to travel up to London after all."
A surprised Susan Wyse replied, "But we've heard nothing about this from Mr Beaton."
"He's sending you a letter explaining, you should get it later today or by tomorrow's morning post," continued Mr Georgie, "Olga called me yesterday afternoon to arrange for him to stay. Lucia was at Town Hall, so I just accepted."
"That is good news indeed," said Mr Wyse, bowing to Georgie, "He will be able to photograph us in our own home, Susan. We must arrange dinner and breakfast"--the Wyses ate late in the morning, so luncheon was referred to as breakfast, eschewing the new and horribly vulgar word brunch--"as soon as we know when he will arrive." Susan nodded; she had already stopped at Worthington's, the poulterer's shop, but she would return there and order partridges or quail for the occasion. Then into the other shops to order salmon for the fish course, oysters for her favourite savoury, and crab, a lot of fresh crab.
Georgie knew what Susan was thinking. "I'm certain you have arrangements to make, so I'll leave you to your shopping. Au reservior!" Georgie tipped his hat to Mrs Wyse, and Mr Wyse bowed again. As he walked away, Georgie heard Susan say, "I must speak with cook immediately, Algernon!"
Lucia had arranged the menus for meals at Mallards House yesterday after returning from Town Hall and being told of the impending visit. Another coup for Lucia, albeit with Olga Bracely's help once again.
Georgie spied Evie Bartlett, the Vicar's wife, coming out of a shop, and he passed the news on to her. "Fancy! A real fashion photographer in Tilling!" she squeaked with excitement, "We've all seen his photos in fashion magazines! I must tell Kenneth to brush up his sermon on the value of artistic endeavours to the soul." Also, she had seen Diva Plaistow just outside her home (and Tea House), so Evie would have great news for her. Georgie, having spread the news to three members of Tilling society, did not grudge Evie the pleasure of telling Diva. That way, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint will get the news third-hand, or second-hand, whichever it is, he thought, Wicked of me, but so good for Mrs Mapp-Flint's character to be the last to hear.
As Georgie walked up West Street towards Mallards House, he encountered Quaint Irene in front of Taromina. "Has Lucia told you?" he asked.
"About Cecil Beaton, yes. Does Mapp know?" Irene replied.
"I've told the Wyses and Evie, and Evie's telling Diva just now," said Georgie, "So, no, I do not think Mrs Mapp-Flint knows."
"Good. I'll go paint something outside Grebe so that I can tell her," said Irene.
"You'll have to hurry if you want to get there before Mrs Plaistow," said Georgie.
"My feet have wings!" exclaimed Irene, "And besides, the other day Mapp was being rude about the Wyses, claiming that they'd forged the letter from Beaton. Can't wait to tell her!" Having picked up a canvas and her paint box, and forgetting her easel, Irene hurried off. In her haste, Irene left the door standing open, so Georgie shut it for her and resumed his walk up West Street toward home.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lucia called Susan Wyse. "I'm terribly sorry about the short notice, but perhaps you and Mr Wyse would join us for tea at Mallards House? Mr Beaton asked that we sort out his stay, making sure that he has time to photograph everyone." So the Wyses came and Lucia wrote out the schedule in her neat handwriting.
Thursday, 3:50 p.m. Mr Beaton arrives at Tilling Station, met by Mr and Mrs Pillson. Tea at Ye Olde Tea-House: Mr Beaton, Mr and Mrs Wyse, and Mr and Mrs Pillson.
Thursday, 8:00 p.m., dinner at Starling Cottage with Mr Beaton, Mr and Mrs Wyse, and Mr and Mrs Pillson attending. Mr Beaton will be able to view Starling Cottage and decide wherein he would like to make his photographic portrait.
Friday, 10:00 a.m., Mayor Pillson will escort Mr Beaton through Tilling: High Street, Town Hall to sign Mayor's Book and view Corporation plate, and the Church (time allowing). Mr Beaton may choose to make his photos using our beautiful Tilling as backdrop.
Friday, 12:00 Noon, Mr Beaton will then be escorted to Starling Cottage for portrait. Mr Beaton will have luncheon and tea with Mr and Mrs Wyse. Mr Beaton can choose to dine with either the Wyses or the Pillsons, whichever he prefers.
Saturday, 11:00 a.m., Mr Beaton will breakfast at Starling Cottage with Mr and Mrs Wyse, Mr and Mrs Pillson, the Padre and Evie Bartlett, Mrs Plaistow, Miss Coles, Miss Poppit, and Major and Mrs Mapp-Flint. If others want their photograph taken, they can arrange it then.
Saturday, rest of day, unscheduled time--allow Mr Beaton to decide what he wants to do.
Saturday, 8:00 p.m., dinner for all at Mallards House, Bridge to follow if Mr Beaton is so inclined.
Sunday, 10:00 a.m., Church, following which, buffet luncheon for all in garden at Mallards House.
Sunday, rest of day, unscheduled time--perhaps Mr Beaton will go for an afternoon drive with the Wyses.
Monday, 11:00 a.m., Mr Beaton takes train back to London.
"That sounds well, does it not?" asked Lucia.
"Yes, it gives him time to make more portraits or just take photographs, if he so desires," said Mr Wyse. He was suddenly struck by one major problem, but that problem seemed selfish to him, so once again he forbore to speak.
~~~~~~~~~~
On a first-class ticket which Olga insisted upon purchasing for him, Cecil Beaton arrived in Tilling. He kissed Lucia's gloved hand and reminded her of their acquaintance in London; she pretended to remember him. He was surprised by Georgie Pillson, who was not at all what he expected; but it made sense that Olga liked Georgie, for Georgie was the sort of man that a woman would always be safe with. Beaton and his luggage were loaded into Lucia's Rolls Royce and all were driven to Ye Olde Tea-House, where he met the Wyses and Diva.
"Do you play Bridge, Mr Beaton?" inquired Diva, offering him a plate of sardine tartlets.
"Indeed, I do," said Beaton, for he often won a tidy sum at the Bridge table, although it was not his favourite pass-time.
"Plenty of Bridge in Tilling," said Diva. Although it was only afternoon, Diva had chosen to wear his Mrs Titus Trout dress, black with a bit of crimson lake chiffon around the throat. As styles had changed, Diva had made some alterations to the dress, which now had a regular waist instead of the drop-waist that was so popular in the 1920s. Despite the alterations Diva's pillar-box shape was still apparent, and her rapid, bird-like walk was as far from attractive as a woman could get. Further, she wore a hat of her own design, with long feathers sticking up. This hat was the most striking of her own creations, but like the Titus Trout dress, the hat was out of place in a tea shop in the afternoon. Diva worried that her hands were no longer soft and smooth; work in the Tea-House had brought on wrinkles and age had brought the beginning of dark spots; she had thought of wearing gloves to meet Mr Beaton, but gloves would make serving tea too difficult and would ruin the gloves.
Beaton saw little of this. The afternoon light came through the window, gilding Diva as she bustled about serving tea and chatting. Diva had recently had the back room at Ye Olde Tea-House re-papered in a slightly obnoxious art deco design which had been reduced in price at the builder's. Beaton saw how striking a photo would be of Diva, her dress, and her hat against the wallpaper. He had been dealing with people for too long to mention his desire to photograph Diva. Beaton had been summoned to photograph the Wyses, and he doubted there would be any problem (and there would be great remuneration) with him photographing the Pillsons as well. But the Wyses came first, and it was their anniversary, and he knew he could easily make their portrait something special. But the rich could be touchy about Beaton taking photos of others if it made them feel less-than-special. Charm was the answer, and Beaton had it in spades.
~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, after a seemingly interminable round of tea, and meals, and tours of Tilling, Mr Wyse was alone with Mr Beaton. Mrs Wyse was touching up her makeup.
"I hope it will not seem churlish of me," began Mr Wyse. This amused Beaton, as there as absolutely nothing less churlish than Mr Wyse and his Regency manners.
"A problem?" asked Beaton, "I assure you, you may trust in me."
"This began as a simple portrait of myself and Mrs Wyse, but it seems to have gotten out of hand," said Mr Wyse.
"Do you mean everyone jumping in on what should be your parade?" asked Beaton.
"Yes, I am ashamed to say that you have read my thoughts accurately, although such pettiness should be beneath me," replied Mr Wyse.
"I have considered that, said Beaton, "I was told that you originally wanted a portrait painted, but opted to be photographed?"
"That is so," affirmed Mr Wyse as Mrs Wyse joined them, "We were told that you are the cutting edge in artistic portrait photography." Then to his wife, who had just joined them, he said, "You look quite lovely, my dear Susan! Quite." And she did indeed look regal in her silk-and-lace dress and jewels and sable coat.
"Lovely! Such style! Yes!" said Beaton, and then he continued, "If you would be willing, I have asked a friend of mine, a wonderful portrait painter, to create a painting from one of my photographs. He agreed, but stipulated that the photo be destroyed and only the painting remain. Although it is difficult for me to destroy my own work, I agreed. My friend, Rex Whistler, will make a wonderful portrait in oils for you, if you are willing. And I shall take enough photos of you and Mrs Wyse to make certain that you get both the photo and the painting."
"Indeed! We would be most willing, Mr Beaton! Do have your Mr Whistler paint us," said a relieved Mr Wyse, bowing. Such a considerate gentleman, thought Mr Wyse of Mr Beaton.
Beaton was happy to procure a commission for his friend as well as for himself. Mr Wyse mentioned Gertler's Queen of Sheba, which surprised Beaton. He looked again at Mrs Wyse and thought, the Queen of Sheba does not readily spring to mind when I see her. But Beaton had noticed the sensuality of the Wyses life, something that they seemed to be unaware of, and this natural lack of awareness delighted Beaton.
The scene in Starling Cottage had been arranged by Beaton using the Wyse's own furnishings. He began to snap photos. "Wonderful!--Yes!--Now we're cooking!--Just like Lady Diana! (or some other social icon)," Beaton encouraged his subjects. The Wyses gradually relaxed and the poses became more natural; Beaton kept snapping the shutter. With what he was getting paid for his trip to Tilling, the cost of photographic film was not a consideration.
~~~~~~~~~~
Many of the Tillingites went to tea at Ye Olde Tea House on Monday afternoon in order to discuss Mr Beaton's visit. Lucia and Georgie, Mr and Mrs Wyse, the Padre and Evie Bartlett, Quaint Irene, and Elizabeth Mapp-Flint were present. Major Benjy, having managed to get himself quite fuddled on Lucia's pre-War whisky at the luncheon buffet yesterday, whilst the charming photographer distracted Mrs Mapp-Flint, was under the weather.
Not knowing that Lucia had generously offered to pay Beaton should he take "impromptu" photos of her friends, Diva was telling Evie, ". . . he even took my photo--that's what I call kindness!"
"No!" squeaked Evie.
Diva continued, "Yes, he knocked on the door in the morning before we had opened. Asked me to put on my dress and fascinator. Had Janet set a table in this very room with tea and a plate of sardine tartlets, then took my photo. I can't wait to see it! Ever so kind he was. But he made me take off my gloves, though I didn't want to."
Evie nodded, "Real work is hard on the hands, isn't it?" she said quietly, so that the others would not hear.
"Ach! And he took muckle wee photos of meself in the church, too," said the Padre, not wanting to be left out.
"He said Kenneth had the perfect face for a Vicar," said Evie proudly. Beaton had not asked Evie to pose and although she was rather disappointed, she was used to basking in the reflected glory of husband and church, and so she made the best of it. "And he spoke with me for some time yesterday," said Evie, thinking at least he didn't overlook me like most people do. Not being an artist, Evie did not realize that Beaton overlooked nothing, which was part of the glamour that he cast.
"He took a few snapshots of me and my Benjy-boy at Lucia's wonderful luncheon yesterday," said Elizabeth.
"Was that before or after Major Quai-Hai! was squiffy?" asked Irene.
Elizabeth ignored Irene. Before Irene could push things, Mr Wyse said, "You are all correct--such a considerate man, so understanding."
"Yes, and he told us all about the Mitford sisters and said I quite resembled Lady Diana Manners in style," said Susan Wyse.
"Indeed he did," her husband quickly supported her, lest Elizabeth say something to cast doubt upon or sneer at Susan's statement.
"He was quite cordial to us as well," said Georgie, "he told us all that was happening in London, didn't he, Lucia."
"He did indeed, and he remembered me from my London season so long ago. He said I should return to London more often, but I explained that my duty to Tilling must come first, whatever cost to myself," said Lucia.
"I don't want you to spend time in London unless I'm with you," said Irene. "We could go to all the galleries together; I could advise you on investing in art."
Lucia shook her head gravely, "No, Irene, as a former member of my council, you know how seriously I endeavour to work for the good of Tilling."
Feeling that the air was too heavily mayoral, Elizabeth shone the spotlight back upon Beaton. "Mr Beaton was so sympathetic. He took a photo of me with some flowers in the background after I explained to him that I once lived in Mallards myself, during happy days so long ago." Elizabeth put on her wistful look, well-practiced in front of the mirror, first at Mallards and more lately at Grebe.
"I wonder how long it takes to get the photos back," said Diva, ignoring Elizabeth as Elizabeth had ignored Irene.
"He said about two weeks," said Georgie and Mr Wyse in unison, and everyone laughed. Then the cards were dealt for Bridge.
~~~~~~~~~~
Diva and the Bartletts were the first to receive photos.
Diva sat holding the large envelope for a moment, staring blindly at the London postmark and the return address. Then she tore it open. It contained one photograph, Diva posed against the art deco wallpaper in the back room of Ye Olde Tea House, a cup in one hand and saucer in the other, tartlets on the table beside her. This was not a photo that she had posed for, Beaton had snapped it after telling Janet to bring another plate of biscuits from the kitchen, and Diva had thought they were on a break whilst awaiting Janet's return. Her black dress shown wonderfully against the background and she was laughing at something Beaton had said. As she was seated, her waistline, or lack thereof, was not a consideration. Her hands were smooth and white, and she looked every inch a lady--or almost a lady, Diva thought, being fair minded.
Evie wanted to tear into the envelope but since it contained photos of her husband and the church, she decided to let him open it. She hurried to his study where he was working on his sermon. After opening the sturdy envelope, the Reverend Kenneth Bartlett paused and examined the photo on top.
Beaton had snapped a photo of Evie without her knowing it; she was in the front garden of the Vicarage and had just clipped a stray branch from a rose bush. For some weeks she had been asking her husband to attend to the roses, whose thorns threatened to grab everyone who came down the front path, but he had been busy and so Evie decided to attend to it herself. Beaton was being shown the quaint and beautiful houses, shops, and corners of Tilling by Lucia and Georgie. As they passed by the Vicarage, he snapped a photo of Evie, holding the offending branch of roses in one hand and pruning shears in the other, looking with concentration at the branch. Her face showed her ambivalence at having to cut back the beautiful roses that threatened to turn the Vicarage into a fairy tale castle, unapproachable through the blooms and briars. She looked beautiful.
The Padre held up the photo so that Evie could see it, and he was gratified when she gasped. "I thought he didn't photograph me," she said.
"After he snapped this photo, having you pose would have been a silly waste of time. So beautiful," said her husband. "We'll take it to the framers this morning." Although he did not show it, he was so overcome by the image that he forgot to speak in his usual language, which combined Elizabethan English with spurious Scottish phrases.
"What about those of you?" Evie asked, coming round to look over her husband's shoulder.
"Nice enough, for a beaky old Vicar," said her husband, "but not so stunning as yours." The photo showed the Vicar standing calmly in the church, a hymnal in his hand, with the stone wall as a background; over him towered the beautiful stained glass windows.
"He didn't get much of a close up," said Evie, "You seem rather small."
"Nae, wee wifey, 'tis perfekt," said the Padre, lapsing back into his usual way of speaking. "Shows the Vicar going aboot his daily round, but the Church, which lasts forever, provides his background and His glory."
"We must take both to the framers. Where shall we hang them?" said Evie.
The photos of Irene and the Mapp-Flints, when they arrived then next day, were from Lucia's buffet luncheon which was held in the garden of Mallards House.
One showed Elizabeth with her well-practiced false-wistfulness, leaning in to smell one of her sweet flowers, or more correctly, Lucia's sweet flowers; a nice shot, but more obviously staged than Beaton liked. ("It was the best one I could get of the old girl, who would insist upon hamming it up for me," Beaton had said to Olga.)
Another showed Major Benjy, who was at attention and proffering a salute. He looked very pukkah sahib and not a bit squiffy.
The third showed Irene, pipe in hand, gesticulating as the spoke passionately about her art.
The photos of the Pillsons arrived the day after this. Beaton had planned the delivery of the photos carefully, giving each set of photos a day to be admired and talked about before the next set arrived.
One was an "action shot" of Georgie, nattily attired in white flannels and boater, in his shirtsleeves, his jacket being sportingly discarded. He was focusing on his croquet ball, obviously intending to make a marvellous drive which would send his ball through the hoop and knock Elizabeth Mapp-Flint's ball out of play. His good-natured delight at such a perfect shot lit up his face. He looked young and sporting and happy, and his boater (with its band of Cambridge blue, which Beaton recognized from his days at St. John's College and had commented upon favourably) completely hid his toupet. A private note, addressed to Mr George Pillson, said that Olga Bracely had chosen the photo and had been given a copy of it to keep for herself. This made Georgie even happier than did the photo itself.
And there were two photos of Lucia. In the first, she was seated at the piano, her hands moving, blurred, as she played. Her face, in profile, was calm and pleasant, that of a master pianist playing for her own enjoyment. Lucia and Georgie both gave their post-Beethoven sighs when they saw this. "Lovely," breathed Georgie.
"I never knew what I look like when I play, before now," said Lucia.
"I like it," said Georgie, "You look so tranquil, truly communing with the Muses."
"Yes, I like it, too," said Lucia judiciously. Since becoming Town Councillor and then Mayor, a change had taken place: formerly, Lucia had to be the arbiter of all art and music and poetry; but since her mayoral duties weighed upon her so heavily (she said), she had begun deferring to Georgie in matters artistic. This made good sense, because he was the better artist; he was also the better pianist, but Lucia felt one concession was enough and so she insisted upon remaining the musical expert--she had, after all, gotten her "bit" of Stravinsky by heart.
The second photo was of Lucia in her Mayoral robes, wearing her chain of office and her tricorn hat. Lucia usually sat the hat squarely on her head; Beaton had made her tilt it to the side, "just a smidegon." She looked both grave and efficient, but the tilted tricorn made her look approachable as well. Lucia sighed over this photo as well, for it was exactly as she hoped to appear as Mayor.
"Georgino! Will you take these down to the framers?" she asked.
"Indeed, I will! and presto, presto, too!" said Georgie, eager for the photos to be properly displayed.
Lucia and Georgie looked at one another and laughed out loud, just as they did when they finished one of their Mozartino duets at the same time.
"Such perfection!" said Georgie.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Wyses were last to receive their photos. A note said that the painted portrait would take some time longer, but the Wyses could rest assured that it was in the making.
Photographed together, Susan in silk and lace and her sables, the box containing her M.B.E. open on the table next to her along with a bottle of wine from the vineyards of Villa di Faraglione and a vase carved from malachite, and Algernon in velvet and silk, looking "very much Sir Henry Irving," as described by Beaton; it was exactly what the Wyses had wanted. The distinguished mark of "Cecil Beaton, Photographer" was stamped on the photo.
"Well done," said Mr Wyse.
"Quite gratifying," Susan Wyse agreed, "So glad you thought of it, Algernon."
And there was a surprise for Mr Wyse: a photo of voluptuous Susan, looking every inch the Queen of Sheba, wearing only her sables and a seductive look. Even though the photo did not show Susan's breasts or buttocks or "front bottom," she was obviously nude beneath her furs. "For your eyes only, Algernon!" she admonished, "I do not want to be treated as the Pride of Poona!"
"Never, never!" cried her husband. "This shall be kept in my dresser drawer, where only I can see it," he averred, forgetting that Figgis, his valet, had frequent access to that dresser. Algernon Wyse dropped down onto one knee and took his wife's hand. "My beautiful Susan!" he cried, "May I be encouraged to hope that I may visit your boudoir tonight?"
"Of course, my dear Algernon! With pleasure!" she replied, but before the two could go any further, the footsteps of the maid were heard outside the door; Mr Wyse stood up and both moved their faces into expressions less passionate and more acceptable to the staff.
~~~~~~~~~~
There was one more person in Tilling who received a photograph. When allowed "off the leash" to wander Tilling and its environs, Beaton had decided to walk among the dunes; he wanted to get away from people for a bit. As he crested one dune, he saw a vision, a young woman, nude, reclining upon a towel, exposing herself to the rays of the sun. "Diana of the Dunes!" thought Beaton, snapping a photo just before the sand slid and shifted and revealed his presence. The young woman hastily pulled her robe around herself.
"I'm so sorry to have disturbed you, Miss!" he knew he should introduce himself, and quickly. "I am Cecil Beaton, the photographer," he employed a ploy which he despised: "You may have heard of me?"
"Yes, I've seen your work. And you came here to photograph Mamma and my stepfather," replied this Diana.
"You're Miss Poppit? Isabel?" asked Beaton.
"Yes."
"Your mother said you lived out among the dunes. She said that you called it the Browning Society, meaning the sunshine, not the poet; most amusing!"
"Thank you." There was a pause which could have been awkward but was really just Isabel, who had grown unused to conversation. With a directness born of living alone (except for her maid) with sea and sky and sand, Isabel finally confessed, "I've come to enjoy the solitude of the dunes, but I do miss some of the luxuries."
Beaton seated himself in the sand where he could continue to observe Isabel, who was not a beauty in the traditional sense; Beaton was trying to find the words to describe her. "I don't think I could live without the luxuries; the necessities, yes; the luxuries, no!" he said. The two laughed. Sun Sprite! he thought, She's a Sun Sprite!
"Mamma always encourages me to move back into town, and I probably will when it get too cold," confided Isabel. "Last winter was Nordic hell."
"Certainly a good idea," Beaton agreed, "There's something to be said for a warm bath and hot tea on a cold day." He paused. "By the way, I took your photograph just now," he made his own confession.
"I thought I heard the shutter click," said Isabel tranquilly.
"You don't mind?"
"Not out here, where everything is free, and the air is easy to breathe, and the world has been scoured clean by the sand," replied Isabel. "But I do hope you won't publish it. Well, not for some years, anyway. And leave my name off of it when you do. Mamma might have a fit."
"I shall call it 'The Sun Sprite,'" said Beaton.
"Do send me a copy. You can address it to me at Mallards Cottage."
"May I?" asked Beaton, indicating his camera.
"If you must," said Isabel, her eyes fixed upon the dunes. Beaton stood and snapped several photos, moving around the seated Isabel.
"I shall send you copies. But now I must get back into Tilling or I shan't be able to dress for dinner."
Isabel nodded. "Dressing for dinner, and for tea, is so very important in Tilling," she said.
"Then, as the say in Tilling, Au Reservoir!" said Beaton.
Isabel smiled, "Au Reservoir!"
Beaton climbed back up the dune. At the top he paused and looked back and was rewarded with another glimpse of Isabel as she opened her gown and exposed her skin once again to the society of the sun. Just as Olga said: Tilling has been more rewarding than I imagined, he thought as he trudged across the Camber sands toward the tram stop and the red brick and tile of Tilling.
THE END
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