Life Begins in Tilling

By Kathleen Bradford based upon characters  created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt.

    

     Mr Georgie Pillson sat in Ye Olde Tea-House, on the High Street in the beautiful Sussex town of Tilling, with its proprietoress Mrs Godiva Plaistow.  Ye Olde Tea-House served tea only on four afternoons a week; the rest of the time it was Diva’s home, called Wasters.  The day was April 22, and Mr Georgie had noticed that Diva seemed on edge and near tears.  He gently asked her if there was anything he could do to help her.  Diva pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed away her unshed tears.

     “There’s nothing you can do, Mr Georgie.  You see, it’s the anniversary of my husband Henry’s death,” she said; “He died on a Thursday,” she added irrelevantly.

     “My Dear,” said Georgie kindly.  “Do you want to tell me about it?  Would that help?”

     With this small sympathetic inducement, Diva nodded and began to unburden herself.  “We married in 1914, just before he enlisted in the Army.  We’d courted for almost a year, so no unseemly haste in marrying, although the war added some urgency, and accounted for the banns not being read.  We married in the registry office in Brighton, where we both lived, and had our marriage night here in Tilling at the George Inn.”

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     She paused and Georgie said nothing, but nodded sympathetically while his friend gathered her thoughts.  He was thrilled to learn about Diva’s life before Tilling but hoped she would omit the details of her “marriage night”.

     Diva continued, “We weren’t very young.  I was twenty-five and he was almost thirty-three when we married.  He was a clerk in an insurance firm.  I liked to help in the family shop, though my mother didn’t approve.  My grandfather was a butcher; I liked chatting with customers, you see.”

     Georgie nodded; since Diva had opened her tea house just so she would have a steady flow of customers with whom to chat, her statement did not surprise him. 

     Diva continued, “Anyway, we met when he came in and asked for calf’s liver sliced thick, said the other butchers sliced it too thin and it dried out when he cooked it.  A bachelor, living on his own, he liked doing his own cooking.  I liked that and said so.  That was how it all began.”

     Georgie again nodded sympathetically and waited silently for Diva to continue.  He did not want to interrupt the somewhat meandering flow of her story with questions or comments; his job to provide Diva with a sympathetic ear.        

     “After coming to the shop two times a week for several months, he asked me to a tea-social at his church.  I went.  We began keeping company on Sunday afternoons, along with his visits to the shop.  Fortunately my grandparents liked him well enough.  Mother thought him dull, though.

     “One afternoon, just after war was declared, he said he was going to enlist in the Army, and he hoped I would do him the honour of becoming his wife.  I agreed.  You see, I thought he was too old and wouldn’t be called up.  We married and he filled out his enlistment papers on the same day.  We took a bus into Tilling and stayed at the George.  He said we’d have a proper honeymoon after he returned from the field of battle, which I thought romantic.  We returned late the next day to his little flat, where he cooked liver and onions for me.”  Diva laughed a little, “Sweet of him.  And he did cook well, just basic meat and vegetables.  He bought his bread and cakes and puddings.

     “Anyway, sooner than we expected he was called up.  I had a few letters from him.  He was with a Lieutenant Pollard at the Second Battle of Ypres.  First time the Germans used gas, and it was gas that got him,” she paused and dabbed her eyes again.

     “Because he was ‘in’ insurance, he left a policy that paid out a little nest egg for me.  Right after victory was declared, I re-visited Tilling; the George and the Ypres Tower reminded me of Henry.   I impulsively spent part of the nest egg on Wasters.  I had our things moved from Brighton to Tilling and bought some new furnishings.”

     “So that’s how you came to Tilling,” said Georgie neutrally.  He felt sure that Diva had not shared her story with anyone before now, which made him feel excited by the “news” and honoured by her confidence in his discretion.

     “Lucky for me that Henry knew insurance,” she paused, thinking of other war widows who were not so lucky.  “Then the ‘flu’ took my grandparents and my mother, though I went back to Brighton and did my best to nurse them.  There were so many sick.  Some gilt-edge bonds came to me, so I have a small income, which is nice:  nest eggs don’t last forever.  Coming back to Tilling after the funeral really felt like coming home for me,” she trailed off. 

     “I was still in mourning and Elizabeth paid a visit, ‘to welcome you’ she said, pretending she wasn’t just being nosy.  But being nosy myself, I understood.  That’s how Elizabeth and I met.  I’m muddling things up; I met Elizabeth after Henry was killed but before my family died.” With an abrupt change in the conversation, which was not unusual with Diva, she said, “I really must go and help Janet.”

     “No,” replied Georgie firmly.  “Janet can handle customers very well for now.  Here’s my plan: we’ll walk to Mallards House and pick the choicest blooms in the garden.  Then we’ll go to the Ypres Tower, and to the Gun Garden where you can lay the flowers at the foot of one of the cannons in honour of your husband’s memory.”  Georgie then added, “If you like, we can go into the church and say a prayer for your Henry.  Then we can come back here and I will buy you the best tea to be had in Tilling!” 

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     Diva agreed to Mr Georgie’s plan and excused herself for a moment, “Must wash my face and get a clean handkerchief.”  She also needed privacy in which to do some inelegant nose-blowing.  
     Georgie simply nodded yet again, mulling over Diva’s sad story while he waited.  Fortunately, Diva lives for today;  if she were of a more melancholy disposition she might be miserable, but she hasn’t the sort character that allows misery, he thought; and neither have I, thank goodness!

     Thus the pair went to Mallards House, then to the Ypres Tower and the Gun Garden.  Diva was hungry by then and suggested they skip the church. 

     “I do hope you don’t think it callous of me,” Diva said.

     “No, of course not,” Mr Georgie assured her.  “Actually in good taste.  Mourning is one of those things that is public but private at the same time; oh, that didn’t make sense, but I’m sure you know what I mean: stiff upper lip.” 

     “We were married such a short time, is all.  I didn’t get a chance to know Henry that well.  Don’t usually miss him that much, just sorry I never got the chance. . . .” she trailed off.  Then she said, “So kind of you, Mr Georgie.” 

     Then with another abrupt change of subject, she continued, “‘Stiff upper lip’ reminds me:  this morning Major Benjy’s moustache was much smaller than usual.  He said he had a little ‘slip-up’ with the scissors when he was trimming it last night.”

     “No!” said Georgie. 

     “He and Elizabeth had dinner at the Wyse’s, so it was probably too much port and brandy that caused his slip-up.  As usual.”

     “Well, it will grow out.”

     “And grow out quickly.  Major Benjy may not have hair on top of his head but he certainly makes up for it around the nose and ears,” said Diva, who then remembered to whom she was speaking and hastened to cover her mistake:  “Not everyone has hair and a beard that’s as nice and as well-groomed as yours is,” she said with a silent prayer that she not be struck by lightning. 

     The residents of Tilling knew that Mr Georgie wore a toupet and that he dyed his hair and beard a striking shade of auburn, but since it was general knowledge, it was never discussed in front of him and so he believed that only he and his barber in Hastings knew the secret (and perhaps Foljambe, who was Georgie’s maid and valet).  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint maliciously had once approached the subject of men’s hair in front of all of Tilling society, no doubt intent upon embarrassing Georgie, but Georgie’s wife Lucia was present and simply mentioned how beautiful Elizabeth’s teeth were, which stopped Elizabeth in mid-sentence.  Elizabeth was left wondering how Lucia knew that her beautiful teeth, of which she was so proud, were false. 

     Diva and Georgie arrived back at Ye Olde Tea-House for their special memorial tea—for whilst Diva went to get another clean handkerchief, Georgie had asked Janet to have liver and onions ready for their tea when they returned.  Diva said to Georgie, “Most thoughtful of you.  And thank you for cheering me up.”

     “Not at all.  That’s what friends are for,” he replied.

     “If you don’t mind, I’d rather that not everyone find out about Henry,” continued Diva.  “You’ll tell Lucia, of course, but I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’ve never really talked about it before, and I don’t want to keep on talking about it, you see.  I like getting on with life.”

     “That’s the spirit!” replied Georgie, then with his own abrupt change of subject he asked, “Did you see the daring new dresses in Vogue?  So short!  What do you think of them?”  And so conversation thrives in Tilling.

     Georgie’s and Diva’s walk through Tilling had been observed by Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, who was trying to re-negotiate her agreement with greengrocer Harold Twistevant in order to get more money for her garden produce.  Just before she stepped into the shop, she saw Diva’s purple skirt and matching jacket, decorated with chintz roses, going down the High Street with Georgie’s fawn-coloured trousers.  The pair went into Ye Olde Tea-House.  Tilling’s morning shopping hour was well over with, and it was almost time for tea. 

     What can those two be doing, wandering around town at this time of day? Elizabeth wondered.  They appear to be thick-as-thieves.  With her natural curiosity nagging her, she decided to stop for tea at Diva’s.  Fortunately for Mr Twistevant, this cut short the argument over supply and demand; Elizabeth was so intent upon learning what Georgie and Diva were doing together that it distracted her from her planned arguments.  So with nothing gained, but with a determined intent to attack Twistevant again later, Elizabeth hurried to Ye Olde Tea-House.

     Diva and Mr Georgie were seated at a table together. 

     “How-de-do, Diva dear, Mr Georgie,” she said with her sweetest smile.  “A little tête-à-tête?” asked Elizabeth as she stood next to their table.  She observed that they were eating liver and onions, which was well beyond the usual menu at Ye Olde Tea-House.  “Liver and onions!  How nice!”  She smiled even wider.  Elizabeth believed that her smiles lulled people into confiding in her, and that might be true of a stranger; however, anyone who knew Elizabeth knew that it was a hungry hyena smile on her face and that it boded no good.

     Mr Georgie stood.  “Do sit down, Mrs Mapp-Flint,” said he, even though they were at a table which was only big enough for two.  “Janet was good enough to surprise us with something beyond the Tea-House’s usual offerings.”   Elizabeth ignored the smallness of the table and sat, pulling a chair over from another table. 

     “What will you have?” asked Georgie, who realized he would probably end up paying for Elizabeth’s tea but was too dutiful a host to refuse her.

     “Just a cup of tea for me, thank you,” she replied.  “Any news?”  Since the only news was of Major Benjy’s mishap whilst trimming the moustache, and since Elizabeth was married to Major Benjy and, therefore, already knew about the errant trimming, the answer was negative. 

     Diva’s Janet handed her another teacup, and Diva poured.  The tea in the pot, by this time, was tepid in temperature and tannic in flavour.  Diva had resolved that she would not ask for a fresh pot.  Serves Elizabeth right for nosing in like this, she thought.  Diva asked, “What brings you to town this time of day?”

     Although it was far too early in the year, Elizabeth lied, “Just checking to see if the material for my summer frock had come in yet.”  Elizabeth thought that her financial arrangements regarding the disposal of her garden produce was no one’s business but her own.  Unfortunately the mention of summer dresses always had the effect of stifling conversation:  the ladies of Tilling never revealed what type of material they had ordered so that no one could steal their idea, and since Elizabeth was usually the one who did the stealing, there was no safe ground for discussion.  The summer frocks provided several weeks of speculation and occasional under-handed behaviour for some of the ladies of Tilling, but summer frock season was still more than a month away.

     In response to Elizabeth’s obvious lie, Georgie said innocently, “Oh.  I thought I saw you coming of out Twistevant’s as we were coming in here, not the draper’s.”

     “I stopped by the greengrocer’s after going to Heyne’s,” said Elizabeth pointedly.  “And what have you been doing?” she asked in a rather mean tone of voice:  her sweetness evaporated under the light of the truth which Mr Georgie had shone upon her, or perhaps the tannin had brought out the natural acidity of her character.

     Elizabeth’s tone nettled Diva.  “Today is the anniversary of my Henry’s death, and Mr Georgie was kind enough to let me pick some flowers from the garden at Mallards House and to escort me as I lay them at the base of one of the cannons in the Gun Garden.  In memory of Henry.  Then we came back here for a proper tea.”  Diva suddenly felt argumentative herself:  “That is all, Elizabeth, and I ask you to not use that nasty tone of voice.  My grief and Mr Georgie’s kindness don’t warrant such an accusation.”

     Elizabeth huffed and said, “I did not accuse anyone of anything—!”

     Diva interrupted, “No, but your tone of voice did!”  Diva was standing her ground.

     Elizabeth huffed again and exclaimed, “If this is the way in which you treat customers—!”

     “Does that mean you’re actually going to pay for your own tea this time?” countered Diva.

     Elizabeth, her lips white with fury, rose and left the Tea-House.

     Georgie, who had watched this exchange excitedly (and with his mouth open), drew in a breath. 

     “It’s okay, Mr Georgie.  Every so often I have to give Elizabeth what-for.  Otherwise she’ll walk all over me.  I just don’t usually argue in public.”  Diva was elated: she usually did not win when jousting with Elizabeth.

     “Well, I think it was very brave of you,” said Georgie.

     “It was her foul tone of voice I couldn’t stand.  Especially after you’ve been so kind to me.”

     Diva and Georgie finished their tea, for which Diva refused any remuneration.  “You’d better tell Lucia what we did today, just in case Elizabeth continues to be nasty about it,” Diva told Georgie as he left.

     And upon his return to Mallards House, that is exactly what Georgie did.  When he entered the garden-room and greeted his wife, she asked, “Any news?” and Georgie was delighted to tell her.  

     “Diva was quite confrontational with Elizabeth, which made Elizabeth furious,” he said.

     Lucia was angry over Elizabeth's innuendos and rudeness, but she merely said, “I will probably have to invite the Mapp-Flints to tea-and-Bridge at Diva’s, just to smooth things over, next week.  I remember how enraged Elizabeth was when we returned from being lost at sea and she found Major Benjy had moved into her house.  I can see the look of fury even now!”

     Lucia recalled that there was a meeting of the Parish Council tonight, which she would attend as councillor.  A word in the Padre’s ear should suggest a suitable sermon for Sunday; there was plenty in the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer against spreading foul lies, and, after all, Lucia was an excellent donor to the Church, as Norman churches were always in need of expensive maintenance.  Elizabeth’s thinly-veiled, vulgar accusations were too much, especially when they were aimed at Lucia's own dear, innocent Georgie.

     “I just didn’t want Elizabeth’s intolerable innuendos to reach your ears without you knowing about it.  I owe us all that,” said Georgie.

     “Why, Georgie!  I could never think anything reprehensible of you and Diva,” said Lucia, “And I hardly care what Elizabeth Mapp-Flint thinks.”

     “No, of course not,” said Georgie, although he knew just the opposite to be true.  He realized that Elizabeth’s fury was getting too much attention and sought to return the spotlight to its proper place.  “And isn’t Diva’s story too sad for words?” 

     Lucia agreed.

     The next morning during shopping hour, Elizabeth, still furious with Diva, began trying to turn Diva’s tea with Mr Georgie into something it was not, just as Diva expected she would.  “Imagine my surprise to find them having tea, alone, together,” she said to Mrs Susan Wyse.  Elizabeth had leaned in the window of the Rolls Royce from which the Wyses did their morning shopping.

     Mrs Wyse, who knew Diva and Georgie quite well, said, “Why surprised?  Tea with Diva and Mr Georgie is always a delight.” 

     Elizabeth pushed her misrepresentation further.  “But alone.  Together.  It seems almost indecent!”  Elizabeth had tried out these incendiary phrases on Major Benjy at breakfast.  Major Benjy had appreciated Elizabeth’s base insinuations and had made a few vulgar remarks of his own.  But Mr and Mrs Wyse were not of the same ilk as Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint, known to his regiment as “Sporting Benjy.”

     Mr Algernon Wyse, who was in the back seat of the Rolls Royce with his wife, put his monocle up to his eye and as if to examine Elizabeth.  He was about to tell Drake to “Drive on,” as this was not a conversation for decent people, much less a Wyse of Whitchurch and his wife, an M.B.E.  Before he could give the command, the M.B.E. scolded Elizabeth, “How can you think such a thing!  Never, never would either of them do that.”  She added a stinger of her own:  “You’ve been living with Major Benjy and his Pride of Poona much too long!  For shame, Elizabeth!”  With that Mrs Wyse put up the window whilst her husband gave the order to drive on.

     “Well done, Susan!” said Mr Wyse.

     “’Indecent!?’” said Mrs Wyse, who was still indignant.  “Never!” she repeated.  And that was an end to the subject as far as the Wyses were concerned.

     Having failed dismally with the Wyses, Elizabeth next approached Evie Bartlett, the wife of Tilling’s vicar.  In response to Evie’s, “Any news?”    Elizabeth said, “Something quite shocking.  I don’t know if I should tell you about it, since you’re the vicar’s wife.”

     “Oh, I’ve heard everything, Elizabeth; I’m not sequestered in a harem, after all,” said Evie. 

     Had Elizabeth a better imagination, the idea of Evie in a harem would have given her pause and, possibly, brought the Pride of Poona to mind.  Intent upon smearing her friends’ characters, Elizabeth ignored the questionable mention of a harem and unfolded her tale of Diva and Mr Georgie having tea together, but before she got to say “indecent”, Evie cut her off.

     “I know all about that.  There’s nothing wrong about it.  It was the anniversary of Diva’s husband’s death.  I think it was quite kind of Mr Georgie to take the time to listen to her.”

     “But alone!  Together!” Elizabeth was desperate.

     “Not alone: they were in the Tea-House, and Janet and several customers were present.  And not alone walking through town, either, plenty of other pedestrians about,” said Evie reasonably, as she thought, I must remind Kenneth to preach about the evils gossip, the leaven of malice, this Sunday.  Fortunately, the leaven in Elizabeth’s malice was not working.

     At this moment the two ladies were joined by the Padre himself, and Elizabeth, who could never speak of such things to a man of the cloth, excused herself.  She knew she would come off looking poorly when Evie relayed her comments to the Padre.

     Elizabeth next encountered Quaint Irene Coles, who had set up her easel in front of a shop.  Irene was the person Elizabeth least wanted to run into on that April morning, but Irene and her easel had been hidden by a delivery truck:  avoiding Quaint Irene was thus out of the question.

     “What’s up, Mapp!” Irene greeted Elizabeth.

     “Nothing decent that I can tell you, Quaint One,” Elizabeth responded. 

     “No?  Not spreading venomous lies about Diva and Georgie?” countered Irene with the frankness that always upset Elizabeth.  “Tell me about their tête-à-tête, Mapp!  And don’t leave out any of your innuendos!” Irene urged with a leer.  Irene had already met Diva, then Mr Georgie, and then the Wyses, and so she knew exactly what sort of toxin Elizabeth was spreading.

     Elizabeth could think of no response.  And so, with Irene getting in the last word, as usual, Elizabeth let the subject die.  As she walked slowly back to Grebe, her home on the marshes outside of Tilling, she found poor consolation:  At least I deflected attention from my Benjy-boy’s mishap with his moustache!

THE END

Text Copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford

The Tilling Cocktail

The Tilling Cocktail:  An Anecdotal Study of Its Origins on an East Sussex Summer Day, with Additional History of the Process of Its Naming at Mallards House, Tilling, and the Finalization and Recognition of the Name at the Savoy Hotel, London

By Kathleen Bradford, based upon characters created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt, Guy Fraser-Sampson and Deryck Solomon

    

     An original drink recipe was devised by Mr George Pillson of Mallards House, Tilling, East Sussex, in the summer of 1934 on a day when “it was too hot to play croquet, or do anything, really.”  Although finding the heat to be “quite tarsome,” Mr Georgie was still restless and began “puttering about” with the liquor on sideboard.  After tasting Georgie’s “little concoction of my own”, his wife Emmeline “Lucia” Pillson, then Mayor of Tilling, insisted he serve the cocktail at their next dinner party.

     In Tilling society, the drink was well-received by everyone except Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, then Mayoress and Councillor of Tilling, who praised it highly, but did so with a look on her face that said just the opposite.  She did later appropriate the cocktail for her own use on those rare occasions when she had people to dinner, albeit the cocktail was served in adulterated form in order to make it less costly, and she attributed its invention to her Great Aunt Caroline.

     On the evening of Lucia’s dinner party, the cocktail was still un-named, as Georgie wanted to call it the Olga Cocktail after his dear friend, the Prima Donna  Olga Bracely, but he forbore to say so, knowing that it would irritate his wife, who was graciously allowing Olga to stay with them for fortnight’s rest in the rejuvenating sea air of England’s South Coast, well known for its restorative properties.  Georgie knew that the graciousness could evaporate quickly, as it only thinly veiled Lucia’s jealousy over his friendship with Olga.

     Lucia, of course, wanted it called the Pillson Cocktail, or the Lucia Cocktail, or the Tilling Aperitivo. 

     Mrs Susan Wyse first suggested the Blue Birdie Cocktail, but after it was pointed out that the cocktail was not blue, she made a second suggestion of the M.B.E. Cocktail, which was greeted with even less enthusiasm than her previous suggestion.

     Mr Algernon Wyse praised his wife’s valiant attempt at naming and politely begged Mr Pillson to name it the Whitchurch Cocktail, at which his sister Amelia, the Contessa di Faraglione, snorted and said, “You may as well name it the Contessa Cocktail,” and asked if she could have her glass refilled.

     Mr Wyse bowed to his sister but gently suggested that, as it was a Tilling creation, perhaps the name should indeed reflect something more local; and thus he withdrew his suggestion of the Whitchurch Cocktail, as Tilling is in East Sussex and Whitchurch is in Hampshire.

     Olga, of course, called it “The Georgie.”  And she then added, “The best dressed cocktail in East Sussex!”  Everyone laughed, and Mr Wyse bowed to Olga.  Georgie was well known for his neat, stylish, and sometimes daring mode of dress.

     “Why not the Tilling Godiva,” suggested Mrs Godiva Plaistow, known as “Diva”, whose rotund form in no way encouraged the interest of any Peeping Tom.  She elaborated, “You know, like the Horse’s Neck or the Singapore Sling.”  At this, everyone paused to look curiously at Diva, wondering at her familiarity with these exotic cocktails.  Answering the unspoken question, Diva added, “Read about them in Vogue.  Never tasted them, though.”

     Mr Georgie made a mental note to order a cocktail recipe book from the book shop, so that he could introduce different cocktails to Tilling.  After all, his little concoction was providing much comment and conversation tonight, so other cocktails might prove similarly rewarding. Thank goodness no one’s wearing any new clothes, he thought selfishly, as a new frock or suit might have distracted Tilling from his cocktail.  Why, I’m discovering a whole new aspect to being a host!  And I get so nervous whenever I’m wearing a new suit, but I can use a different cocktail to distract everyone when I do.

     Quaint Irene Coles, Tilling’s avant-garde artist and Socialist, suggested the drink be called the Poor Man’s Poison, which everyone thought was in poor taste.  Realizing her gaffe, and realizing she had probably hurt Mr Georgie’s feelings thereby, she apologized, then said, “I also vote for calling it the Georgie Cocktail!”

     Major Benjy, who disliked what he considered to be effeminate drinks, had been casting about desperately for something appropriate to say.  “By God!  This reminds me of a drink I had at the Thana Polo Club in India, but better tasting.”  There, that’s all right, he thought with satisfaction, as Georgie refreshed his drink.

     Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had been uncharacteristically silent during the repartee.  She now spoke, “I don’t know.  It tastes rather too strong for me, though I’m sure it’s quite good.”  Her attempt to damn the cocktail with faint praise failed.

     Quaint Irene batted her eyes at Elizabeth, “How about calling it the Knockout Punch?  Strong, and like Horse’s Neck or Singapore Sling.”  She nodded at Diva.

     Suddenly Evie Bartlett, the Vicar’s wife, said, “No, it’s not strong.  It’s delicious!  Strong is like Major Benjy’s whisky.”  Since it was very unusual for Evie to contradict anyone, her words carried weight.  It was, in fact, very unusual for anyone except Lucia to contradict Irene or Elizabeth.  Evie’s contradicting both Irene and Elizabeth at once was later called “one of the greatest acts of heroism in Tilling history” by the Contessa, who suddenly took notice of Evie, whom she had never really noticed before. 

     Evie’s bravery in praising his concoction made Georgie doubly firm in his resolve to obtain a cocktail recipe book.  At least Diva and Evie will appreciate my cocktails, he thought; it will give them a little taste of the exotic.

     Realizing that his mousy wife might be in need of reinforcement, the Reverend Kenneth Bartlett, called “Padre”, put the weight of the Church of England behind his wife.  “Ach!  Weel, wee wifey, you’re quite richt, quite richt!  Not strong, but delicious!  Needs a delicious name to go wi’ it.”  The Padre almost always spoke in an odd mixture of Elizabethan English and archaic Scottish.

     Grosvenor entered and announced dinner, and no name was ever chosen for Georgie’s cocktail.  But some weeks later, Olga Bracely asked the waiter at the Savoy in London for a “Tilling Cocktail” and gave him the recipe, and “Tilling Cocktail” was what it was henceforth called.

http://www.prlog.org/10322782-rare-gorham-silver-cocktail-shaker-from-1925-captures-the-spirit-of-the-roaring-20s.html

The Basic Recipe:

Into an appropriately ornate cocktail shaker pour

4 ounces Campari Italian Bitters for the Worshipful Lucia Pillson,

4 ounces Noilly Prat Rouge sweet vermouth for Mr Georgie Pillson,

4 ounces Bombay Sapphire Gin for Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint.

The Variable Ingredients:

     Elizabeth Mapp-Flint adds as much Schweppes Indian Tonic Water as possible, because it is good for the digestion and acts as a prophylactic against bilharzia; she is always looking after her Benjy-boy, who is prone to recurring bouts of an undefined tropical illness, causing him to suffer intermittent flaccid paraplegia and changes in personal behaviour.  Major Benjy says he contracted this illness whilst he served in the King’s Indian Army.  Also, Elizabeth knows that tonic water costs much less than any sparkling wine. 

     As alternatives, Lucia and Georgie prefer to use Italian Prosecco instead of tonic, while the Wyses use Veuve Cliquot.

     Major Benjy prefers to use in the Tilling Cocktail no tonic, no Prosecco, no champagne, no Campari, and no vermouth; ignoring the fact that only one ingredient is not a recipe, Major Benjy claims a daily dose of Bombay Gin is what keeps his bilharzia from recurring, not tonic water.

Mixing the Cocktail:

     Give the cocktail shaker to Quaint Irene, who is expert in agitation, both by shaking and by stirring, all whilst sweetly reciting a naughty limerick in her best imitation of Mapp’s velvety, cooing voice.

Serving the Cocktail:

     Pour into twelve glasses, as there will be three tables for Bridge.

     Serve with good humour and grace to Prima Donna Olga Bracely.

     Serve to the Contessa di Faraglione and quietly say to her, “Lothario of the Tiger Skins,” which will make her look at Major Benjy and laugh out loud.

     When tonic water is used, serve under ultraviolet light to Mrs Wyse, as tonic water will fluoresce and create the proper purple glow to stimulate her psychical abilities and perhaps attract the errant spirit of Blue Birdie:  “Tweet! Tweet!”

     Serve to Diva, commenting that this cocktail is a perfect compliment to her delicious and savoury sardine tartlets.

     Serve to Evie Bartlett without really noticing her, unless she squeaks.

     Serve on a small Georgian sterling silver tray with a verified punch-mark of Hester Bateman (registered with the London Goldsmith’s Guild in 1761), with a flourish and a bow, to Mr Wyse.

     Serve to the Padre, and ask him, as a voluntary, to sing the Selkirk Grace, attributed to Robert Burns:

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it,

But we hae meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.”

The End

Text Copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford

Gas and Drains and the Tilling Historical Society

By Kathleen Bradford, based upon characters created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt, Guy Fraser-Sampson and Deryck Solomon.  This story takes place after just after Lucia Triumphant.

   Lucia Pillson, Mayor of Tilling, stood in the entry hall at her home, Mallards House, with Tilling’s Town Surveyor, Percy, and the Foreman of the Gasworks, Percy’s brother Georgie. 
     “Of course I can spare you ten minutes, gentlemen; please come into my office.”  The three entered the small room off the hall at the front of the house which served as Lucia’s office.  “Please be seated,” she said.
     “Thank you, Ma’am, but we’d prefer to stand,” said Percy nervously.  The two brothers, who were usually full of jokes and laughter, presented grave faces. 
     “Certainly.  How can I be of assistance?  Something wrong in the Football or the Cricket Club?” Lucia was President of the Tilling Football and Cricket Clubs, elected after donating a heavy roller for the playing field and subsequently donating jerseys in the Tilling colours to the members of the football team and white flannels to the members of the cricket team.  She was currently considering the purchase of state-of-the-art cricket bats for “my cricket players.”
     “No, Ma’am,” said Georgie.  “It’s much more important than that.”
     “You see, Ma’am, we’re members of the Tilling Historical Society,” said Percy.  “Mrs Brace, the doctor’s mother, was President but is stepping down.  We have to elect a new president.”
     Lucia assumed that the brothers were here to offer her the presidency.  “As much as I would like to join the Historical Society, I would have to consider it carefully.  There are many demands on my time: as Mayor, as President of the Football and Cricket Clubs, and I sit on the Parish Council, and the hospital’s Board of Directors and that of the Workhouse.  But my interest in the history and archaeology of Tilling is deep and profound, so if you really need my help.  .  . .” she trailed off.
     “Oh, Ma’am! We don’t like to ask.  It’s just that we have something of a crisis:  your fellow Councillor, Mrs Mapp-Flint, recently joined the Historical Society and is putting herself forward to become next president,” Georgie paused.
     Percy, who had worked with Mrs Pillson for quite some time and was more comfortable talking to her than was his brother, was more forthcoming.  “It would be a disaster!  Already she’s begun trying to use the Society politically.  You remember at last council meeting, she didn’t want the new drains put in because it would destroy our historical cobbled streets?”
     Lucia nodded, “I do remember.”
     “Mrs Mapp-Flint was against the new drains from the first, complaining about the rates but . . .” Percy paused and his brother Georgie shifted his cap nervously in his hands.   
     “Yes?  Please, speak frankly,” urged Lucia.
     “Well, Ma’am, ever since she found out that your gift is funding the new drains, she’s been trying even harder than usual to stop progress,” continued Percy.
     “She even offered Mayor Twistevant a cut rate on the fruits and vegetables that she sells him for his shop, if he would support her,” put in Georgie of the Gasworks.
       That explains why Twistevant and Elizabeth have been supporting one another’s agendas at Council meetings, thought Lucia.
     “And Twistevant seems all for it, too!” cried an upset and angry Percy.  “Now she wants to use the Historical Society to stop the drains, beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am.  Wants to have people down from London or Oxford to do a study and intends to put it forward at the next Council meeting.”
     “I am sure the Council will vote with us in favour of the new drains,” said Lucia.  “All of the tradesmen want improved sanitation, and they know that they probably will never get a better offer to modernize that I am offering them.”  Lucia was donating one third of the funds for the new drains, and humility was not Lucia’s way, especially in times of crisis.    “And even if Mr Twistevant votes with Mrs Mapp-Flint against new drains so he can get cut-price fruit and vegetables, he knows that the other councillors will vote for them and over-ride his vote.”
     “We’re not so worried about the Council, Ma’am,” said Georgie, “we know you can handle them.” Percy nodded in agreement.  “It’s the Historical Society.  We were hoping you’d join and we could put you forward as president instead of Mrs Mapp-Flint.”  He stopped.  Both brothers stood for a moment, still nervously shifting their caps around in their hands.
     Lucia considered.  She was disappointed to realize that she would have to run against Elizabeth for the Presidency, instead of being co-opted for the Presidency, as she had been initially for Town Councillor.  On the other hand, the idea of defeating Elizabeth was certainly attractive.
     “Please, Ma’am!” Percy burst out plaintively, “You’re the only one who can stop her from ruining the Historical Society!”
     Georgie grinned at his brother, “Not to mention that the new drainage system is dear to Percy’s heart.”  His familiar teasing eased the intensity of his brother’s reaction to the machinations of Mrs Mapp-Flint, who had been appointed Mayoress by Lucia and had won her council seat because of that appointment.
     “I don’t deny that, Ma’am.  With your funding,” Percy said, “and your help in planning the drains,” he added diplomatically, although Mrs Pillson had nothing to do with the real planning, “We can leave a lasting mark on Tilling.  I want go down in Tilling history as the man who saved the drains,” Percy continued fervently, “Just like the surveyors who saved London after the Great Stink of 1858.”  There was a pause as Percy recovered himself from his dream of glory in the drains of Tilling and then apologized.
     “No, do not apologize,” said Lucia, raising a hand.  “It is a noble dream and I am happy to help you to realize it.”  She looked earnestly at the brothers, who looked hopefully back at her. 
     “How you all work me!” she said with a smile.  “And how do I go about becoming a member of the Tilling Historical Society?”
     Delighted, the brothers smiled back at their benefactress.
     A few minutes later, Lucia showed the men to the door herself, promising that she and her husband would attend the meeting of the Historical Society the following evening.
     She went into the garden-room where her husband, also called Georgie, was just starting his tea.
     “There are muffins,” he announced, pouring out a cup of tea for Lucia.  “What did Gas and Drains want?” he asked facetiously. 
     “They asked to put us up for membership in the Tilling Historical Society.  I told them we’d be happy to join.”
     “No!  Really?  Will we do more fêtes and tableaux and dress up as historical characters?” asked Georgie in a rush of words.  He liked to dress in the height of fashion, whatever the era, and was eager to begin planning costumes; he loved doing needlework but had become tired of petit- and gros-point and endless embroidery.  Costuming himself, Lucia, and their friends would be a welcome diversion.
     “We will go to the meeting tomorrow evening and see if they vote us in—not a problem with that, say ‘Gas and Drains,’” replied Lucia.
     “Good,” said Georgie.  He realized that the Historical Society would give him a chance to do something for Tilling; being simply the husband of the first female Mayor of Tilling was not enough.  I’ll have to find out what they want; funds, of course, but what else? Perhaps there’s a niche for me and I can step out of Lucia’s shadow.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The Tilling Historical Society met at the Institute, as the Ypres Tower, its main attraction, was unheated and cold this time of year.  The Pillsons were duly voted in as members of the Tilling Historical Society.  Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, while unhappy about it, smiled and sweetly voted “Yea” only because everyone else had done so.
     “However, there is the matter of the donation,” she reminded the members, without bothering to be recognized by the President.
     “We will be happy to help fund whatever ideas you have,” said Lucia quickly, and Georgie nodded.
     “It is not that simple, Lulu dear,” said Elizabeth still smiling saccharine at Lucia, her detested rival for queen of Tilling society; she used “Lulu” knowing how much Lucia disliked being called by that hideous abbreviation.
     Mrs Brace explained:  the Society members were gathering display items for the Ypres Tower and Museum, and over the past several years each new member donated an item, or items, of historical interest.  “Tourists come in charabancs to see that sort of thing,” Mrs Brace said, “So you are now probationary members; full membership is contingent upon each of you donating a suitable item.”
     After the business of the meeting was over, the full members and the two probationary members gathered for tea, Lucia asked, “Tell me, dear Elizabeth, what was your donation?”
     “Yes, please give us some idea of what the Society is looking for,” added Georgie Pillson tactfully.
     “Major Benjy donated an antique sword for the armoury display, and I donated Tilling Pottery Pigs,” replied Elizabeth. 
     “Of course!  We should have guessed. How generous of you to sacrifice your collection for Tilling!” said Lucia effusively.
     Elizabeth smiled and thanked her, omitting to add that she had not donated her entire collection of pottery pigs; she had only donated three pigs that were duplicates to those already in her collection, and the donated pigs had been glued together after Major Benjy knocked them on the floor.  Her own “rainbow of quaint little piggies” was safe on a shelf in the dining room at Grebe, her house outside of Tilling on the marshes.
     “But remember, the items must be of historical significance to Tilling,” admonished Elizabeth.
     “And where is Major Benjy tonight?” asked Lucia.
     “He had a touch of biliousness; I positively insisted that my Benjy-boy stay at Grebe until he felt better.”
     “Do tell him that we asked after him and we hope he feels better soon,” said Georgie.
     “Thank you, I shall,” said Elizabeth, and once again sinning by omission, she failed to add that the biliousness was almost certainly caused by an over-indulgence in the Golf Club’s whisky.
     As they walked home, Lucia and Georgie discussed possible donations.  Broken clay pipes excavated from the garden at Mallards House suggested Lucia.  Georgie reminded her that they had reburied all the things (he wisely refrained from calling them “rubbish,” which in fact they were) that they had dug up.  And those things had definitely proved to be less than antique after all.
     Broken pieces of Samian ware, she then suggested.  Georgie reminded her that the Samian ware had been recovered from a field near Riseholme, the village in the Cotswolds in which Lucia and Georgie had lived prior to moving to Tilling, and were not part of the rubbish they dug up and re-buried at Mallards House.
     Lucia silently wished that Georgie’s memory was not quite so good and that his honesty was not quite so interfering.
     "Some of your bibelots," she suggested. 
     Georgie stopped in the middle of the historically-cobbled street.  “No!” he exclaimed.  “I’m not giving up my bibelots!  We’ll have to find something else.”
     “Very well, caro,” said Lucia soothingly.  “But remember, we do not have much time.  We must save the Tilling Historical Society from Elizabeth Mapp-Flint!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Breakfast at Grebe was not fun for Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint.  As a bachelor, he often had to suffer burnt porridge, but burnt porridge was nothing when compared to facing his wife when she was in a “mood”—and she was always in one mood or another.  Major Benjy tried to hide behind the newspaper, but his wife would not quit talking, which demanded some response on his part.
     “. . . and the effrontery of that woman!  She found out that I had joined the Historical Society and has to push herself in, just to copy me.” Elizabeth bit into a piece of toast, chewed ferociously, and swallowed.  “As usual, she is trying to buy her membership.  Luckily I put a stop to that.”
     “How’s that, Girlie?” replied Major Benjy vaguely, more interested in the sporting news than his wife’s latest tempest in a teacup.
     “Each of the Pillsons must donate an item of historical significance to Tilling instead of giving money.”  She crashed her way through another piece of toast, pausing to notice that her quince jelly tasted quite good, just the right balance of sweet and tart.
     “You’ll beat her this time!” said the Major encouragingly, while still reading the racing results:  at last!  His bookmaker would owe him a little money this week.  Perhaps he could pay a little in on his bill at the wine merchant’s.
     “They do not have much time.  Elections for the President of the Historical Society will be in four weeks; I am certain to win if Lucia does not get in the way.”
     “Of course you’ll win,” said the Major.  He swallowed his tea at a gulp.  “Off to golf!”  He shouldered his bag and walked off to the golf course, leaving his wife to fret alone.

~~~~~~~~~~

          It was at luncheon ten days later that Lucia asked Georgie if he had found anything historical that would gain them full membership in the Society.
     “Nothing.  It’s too tarsome.  Foljambe and I have been through every wardrobe and cupboard.  Neither I nor any of our staff can think of anything appropriate.  I’ve combed through every shop in Tilling and found nothing.  I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” said Georgie dejectedly.
     “And I am sure that you will think of something,” responded his wife.  “Perhaps while I am at Town Hall you will have one of your marvellous ideas.”
     Georgie sighed quietly.  Just like Lucia, leaving me to do the work, he thought.
     After Lucia had left, Georgie’s trusted maid Foljambe came into his oak-panelled sitting room where he sat sewing.   "Pardon me, Sir, but Cadman would like a word,” she said.  Cadman was Lucia’s chauffeur and also Foljambe’s husband.  Georgie could never adjust to calling his maid “Cadman” and so she had kept her maiden name for work.
     “Yes, Cadman?”
     “Excuse me, Sir, but it’s been ever so long since you took the Rolls out, what with you and Mrs Pillson riding your bicycles or walking everywhere.  I hoped a road trip might help you find the historical items you need, Sir,” said the chauffeur.  “Just like a game of Scavenger Hunt.”
     This re-ignited Georgie’s interest in finding suitable items.  He laid aside his embroidery.  “I never thought of it like that!  I haven’t played Scavenger Hunt since I was a boy.  But where would we hunt?”
     “Well, Sir, I noticed some little antique and gift shops in Hastings; I was going to suggest them when you were in need of a new . . .bibelot? Is that the right word, Sir?”
     “Exactly the right word, Cadman.”
     “And if Hastings won’t serve, then there’s always Folkestone or even Brighton, and places in between,” continued Cadman.  “And the Rolls does need to be taken out every so often, Sir; it’s bad for the engine to let it sit too long.”
     “Excellent idea!  A Scavenger Hunt!  We’ll start tomorrow.  Foljambe can come with us and we’ll make a party of it.  Tomorrow, first thing after breakfast,” decided Georgie.
     “Very good, Sir.”
     Georgie realized that Cadman, probably at Foljambe’s urging, had just offered a solution to his problem.  “And, Cadman. . . .”
     “Yes, Sir?”
     “Thank you,” said Georgie with sincerity.
     “My pleasure, Sir,” Cadman said and he left the room.
     A Scavenger Hunt! thought Georgie.  It should be okay since Hermy and Ursy aren’t here.  Hermoine and Ursula were Georgie’s strapping sisters, who were as mannish in their behaviour as Georgie was feminine.  The last time Georgie had gone on a Scavenger Hunt was when he was a small boy, and he was forced by his sisters to scavenge “Mam’selle’s underpants” from the governess’s wardrobe.  As a “lark,” his sisters then told Mam’selle that they had seen him entering her room; his discovery with underpants in hand had led to hysterics from both Mam’selle and Georgie.  The incident had left him scarred for life.  His sisters had been punished, and the words “Scavenger Hunt” were never uttered again.  But now his sisters were either shooting or playing golf or hunting otters in Scotland, and the list of what was to be scavenged was narrow, if vague, so there was no risk of underclothing or emotional trauma being involved.
     Lucia returned from Town Hall, where there was no business to detain her but still she had remained there for an hour in case work should suddenly arise.
     Georgie said firmly, “Lucia.  Tomorrow we’re going on a Scavenger Hunt.  We’re leaving right after breakfast.  Hastings, and anywhere else that we might find historical things.”
     “I do not think I should leave Tilling, so many things to do—”
     “Nonsense.  You can skip any meetings you might have.  A change of air, and I know we shall find the perfect items, one for me and one for you, to give to the Historical Society.  I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer:  we’re going!”
     Lucia gave her silvery laugh, “Caro!  It shall be as you say, a Scavenger Hunt.”  Thus were the words “Scavenger Hunt” cleansed of any negative emotional associations in Georgie’s mind, so long as Hermy and Ursy were not present.
     Georgie wanted to take credit for the idea, but being a gentleman, he could not do so.  “Cadman’s idea; he says that the Rolls needs to be taken out or the engine will plug up, or something; I never realized that automobiles need to be exercised, like horses.  And Cadman knows were there are some shops in Hastings that may have what we need.”
     “An excellent plan, Georgie.  Should I pack a case?”
     “No.  Just a day trip.  We’ll leave early.  If we don’t find what we want, I’ll go to Folkestone tomorrow and scour the country-side for something appropriate.  I want to give the Ypres Tower something better to display than pottery pigs,” said Georgie spiritedly, “but we’re running out of time.”
     “That reminds me.  Percy, my Town Surveyor, corrected a false impression that Elizabeth gave us:  she donated only three pigs, all with chips and cracks in them; not the whole collection at all.”
     “That doesn’t surprise me.  She probably glued them back together after Benjy stumbled and broke them.  She always cheats,” observed Georgie, who was closer to the truth than he knew.  “But I’m determined she shan’t win this time.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     And so it was in the highest of spirits that the party from Mallards House set out the next morning, despite the cold winter weather.  Foljambe thoughtfully put rugs, and hot water bottles, and two large thermos bottles of hot tea, and a small bottle of brandy in the Rolls Royce.  
     To help keep warm, Georgie wore a fur cape of sheared Canadian beaver over his coat.  Lucia touched the fur gently.  “Is that a new cape?  How lovely!  Mrs Wyse will be jealous.”  She referred to their friend Susan Wyse, who wore her sables even in the hottest days of summer.
     “Perhaps.  But my little cape will seem a paltry thing beside her great sable coat and muff.”  Georgie omitted to say that the cape had been a gift from his friend Olga Bracely, the Prima Donna.   
     “Your fur is so much nicer, softer, than her sables,” said Lucia, knowing that Georgie loved a compliment.
     “I think so, too,” said Georgie as they drove off, the engine of the Rolls purring happily.
     The marshes outside Tilling were in their winter colours, and a lapwing flashed by, it's feathers white and iridescent green against the grey sky.  Georgie pointed out that he had little experience in painting winter scenes and said he should try doing so, except that it was uncomfortable to sit out in the cold.  His wife agreed.  There was a lull in the conversation; Lucia and Georgie gazed out the windows as the Rolls moved smoothly along the tarmac.
     Suddenly, Lucia said, “Georgie, there’s something I must tell you.  It’s about Elizabeth Mapp-Flint; her actions have left me with a moral dilemma.”
     Instantly interested, Georgie said, “Please do tell.”
     “I’ve learned that Elizabeth has given Twistevant a lower price on the produce she supplies to his shop as long as he supports her in trying to keep my drains from going in.  A bribe, Georgie!” said Lucia.
     “I have no trouble believing that.  Though it’s foolish of Twistevant, isn’t it?”
     “Very foolish, Georgie.  Why, if anyone had proof that he accepted a bribe, he could be removed, in disgrace, from the office of Councillor.”
     Georgie suddenly realized what Lucia was thinking:  if Twistevant was removed from office, Elizabeth would lose her only supporter in her foolish fight against Lucia's drains.  And if Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was forced off the Council, so much the better for Lucia.  Georgie knew to tread cautiously.  “And do you have proof?” he asked.
     “Just hearsay.”
     “Well, I’m no expert, but I doubt you’ll be able to get him to step down based upon gossip,” said Georgie.  “If confronted, he and Elizabeth will both deny it completely.  And I’m sure Mr Twistevant has his own supporters on the Town Council, even if Elizabeth doesn’t.”
     Lucia began in her most Mayoral voice, “But when I see my duty—“
     Georgie interrupted.  “No, Lucia.  Even if it is gossip,” Georgie stuck to that word, ignoring Lucia’s use of the word hearsay, “This is public and political.  You must rise above such petty things as cut-price cauliflower.  You could end up with mud on your face if you fight Elizabeth in her own garden.”
     Lucia knew that she did not have enough evidence to act upon.  “As you say, Caro.  I shall take your advice, sound as a man’s advice always is,” she said as the Rolls purred its way into St-Leonards-on-Sea, just west of Hastings.  “I shall bide my time,” she added quietly.  She knew that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint would one day slip up, and that she, Lucia, would be there to see it.
     Cadman pulled up in front of a shop on Norman Road.  He helped Lucia and Georgie out of the Rolls.  They looked up and down, noting that there were several antique and curio shops on the street.
     “Cadman, you have chosen well.  Please find someplace nearby to park the car; I shan’t want you following us up and down the street like the Wyses do in Tilling.  We shall meet you at that tea shop,” Lucia pointed down the street to a sign for Clement’s Tea Shop, “in two hours.”  Once again Lucia had referred to Susan Wyse, who had her chauffeur drive her in her Rolls Royce to do the shopping each morning in Tilling’s High Street, stopping at each shop in turn.
     Cadman touched the bill of his cap.  “Very good, Madam,” he said. 
     And Lucia and Georgie began their Scavenger Hunt.
     Two hours later, empty-handed, they entered Clement’s Tea Shop and ordered tea and cakes.  After drinking their hot tea on this cold day, the party from Mallards House returned to the Rolls Royce. 
     “We saw several possible items, but there was nothing that really stood out,” said Georgie to Foljambe.  “I want something that will really impress, a public bibelot.”  Georgie was a fervent over his public bibelot as was Percy over his public drains. 
     I wonder, mused Lucia silently, if the other Georgie is as fervent over his gasworks?
     “Where to now, Cadman?  Into Hastings?” asked Lucia
     “Yes, Madam.  There are more antique shops there.  But, beggin’ your pardon, there’s one shop by the Fisherman’s Museum in Hastings Old Town that I think you should see.”
     “I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hastings Old Town,” said Georgie, who paid a monthly visit to Hastings to see his barber in order to procure the dye for his auburn hair.  The fact that Mr Georgie dyed his hair and wore a toupee was an open secret in Tilling, and therefore safe from the world and never spoken of in his presence.
     “Actually, Sir, it’s in a rather rough part of town.  You should know that before you agree to go there.  But I think it will be a worthwhile visit.”
     Lucia and Georgie looked at each other, weighing the need for an outstanding antique against possibly hearing rough language or being accosted in the street.
     “I think we should try it,” said Lucia, who was not afraid of anything and who knew how much it meant to Georgie to find the perfect item to donate.
     “If I might make a suggestion, Madam,” said Cadman.
     “Of course.”
     “If you don’t mind walking, Madam, Sir, there is a car park several blocks away from the shop, in a better part of town.  We could park the car there and Doris—Foljambe—and I can accompany you on foot,” offered Cadman.
     Georgie was still uncertain; someone “rough” was bound to say something nasty about his cape. 
     Foljambe looked at her employer.  “Safety in numbers, Sir,” she said brightly.
     Reassured, Georgie nodded.  “Yes, Cadman, we’ll do exactly as you say.”
     A few minutes later, Lucia and Georgie followed Cadman and preceded Foljambe down a street in a distinctly dingy part of Hastings.  A few people stared, and a grubby child of indeterminate gender pointed at Georgie in his cape or, perhaps, at Cadman in his chauffeur’s uniform. 
     “Tarsome child,” murmured Georgie.
     “He should be in school, should he not?” Lucia asked, but got no reply.
     The Pillsons were relieved when Cadman held open a shop door for them to enter.  Lucia and Georgie went in, and Cadman and Foljambe waited just inside the door, out of the cold.
     Georgie looked around.  A stout elderly woman emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop.  She was rough-looking but her clothing was clean and neat, if old, and her shop was cleaner than Lucia and Georgie had expected it to be.
     “Help you folks?” she asked.
     Lucia answered, “We’re looking for collectibles to display in our museum in Tilling.”
     “Have a look ‘round then,” the proprietoress said and shuffled off to busy herself sorting through a quantity of fishing lures while Foljambe engaged her in conversation.  Cadman waited watchfully just inside the door.
     The somewhat inadequate lighting reflected from several large, iridescent glass balls on a table.  Georgie looked them over.  “What are these?” he called out.
     “Fishing net floats.  Glass.  Pretty, aren’t they,” the woman replied.
     “They are pretty,” said Georgie as the woman left her hooks and walked toward them.  “I don’t suppose any relate to Tilling?”
     “Just that large one, Sir, the kinda gold one,” she indicated one of the larger floats, “made in Tilling.  There was a small shop there as used to make them, years ago, when my grandmother was a girl.  Gone now, for years and years, that shop.”
     “There must be many of these floats about, so close to Tilling,” said Lucia.
     “Never seen another, and I’ve been working the second-hand shop here ‘most all my life,” said the woman. 
     Lucia said, “We may be interested, but we need to look around some more.”
     “Lucia!” Georgie gasped; he had moved further away, toward the back of the shop.  He was looking at a strange metal object, slightly rusted.  “What is this?  It looks like a lantern, but not quite.”

 

Smuggler's Lamp (Photo by Clive Sawyer). 

http://www.ryemuseum.co.uk

     “That’s an old smuggler’s lamp,” said the woman.  “For them as worked owling.”
     Georgie and Lucia looked confused, and the woman barked a laugh.  “Owling.  An old name for the smuggling trade.”
     Georgie and Lucia smiled, and Lucia stored the word away in her mind for future use.
     “How does the lamp work?” asked Georgie.
     “Put a candle in it.  A smuggling man held it, and put his hand over the end of the spout.  He could cover and uncover the light to signal the smuggling ships; they could see the signal, even far out to sea.”
     “Perfect!” said Georgie.  “I’ll take it!”  To his great relief, he had found the very antique, Tilling-related, historical item he wanted.
     The woman named her price for the smuggler’s lamp and for the Tilling glass float.  Georgie, who would have paid almost anything for the lamp, was happy to find that both items were unexpectedly inexpensive.   
     Lucia was looking a glass case in which was an array of knives and two swords.  The woman noticed her looking.        
     “Keep ‘em locked up, so no one gets any funny ideas,” she said.
     “This sword looks quite old.  Could it have belonged to a smuggler?” asked Lucia.
     “Old, yes.  Dunno how old, though, Ma’am.  Dunno who it belonged to, either,” said the woman.
     “Just a hunch.  But I’ll take the sword, too,” said Lucia.
     The woman wrapped up the items in brown paper, and Georgie took charge of the smuggler’s lamp, Foljambe, of the float, and Lucia, of the sword. 
     “Let me carry that for you, Madam,” said Cadman.
     Lucia replied, “No, Cadman, I can carry it.”  Remembering that they had to pass once again through a rough part of town, “Just in case we have to fight our way back to the Rolls,” she joked.  She wanted Cadman unencumbered in case some ne’er-do-well accosted them in the street.  Georgie’s beautiful cape was conspicuous in this part of Hastings. 
     “Very good, Madam,” Cadman replied.
     After regaining the Rolls Royce without incident, the party from Mallards House retired to the dining room of one of the better hotels for a late luncheon, their purchases safely hidden in the boot.
     “What an adventure!” said Georgie.  “We must tell them that we braved the squalid underbelly of Hastings to get a real smuggler’s lamp!”
     “Elizabeth will be furious.  These things are so much nicer than her pigs,” said Lucia.
     Georgie giggled at the image of a furious Elizabeth, or perhaps the bubbles from the celebratory half-bottle of champagne that Lucia had ordered tickled him.  “I can see her now!  Her face will be all pinched in, then she’ll smile her widest and say what a nice lamp it is, but isn’t it a little rusty.”
     At their own table nearby, Foljambe and Cadman congratulated each other for the successful outing.  Mr Pillson had ordered a half-bottle of champagne for them, so pleased was he with his smuggler’s lamp.
     “Mr Pillson is happier than I’ve seen him in weeks,” said Foljambe.  “I hope they won’t be upset if they ever find out that the woman who owns that shop is your Auntie.”
     Cadman grinned.

~~~~~~~~~~

     At the next meeting of the Tilling Historical Society, Georgie and Lucia presented the lamp and the float.  The lamp was, of course, a huge success.  And the float aroused interest, as Georgie of the Gasworks, after being properly recognized by Mrs Brace, recalled that his granddad’s dad had worked briefly at the glass factory in Tilling, just before it closed.  “Rare, these are,” he said.  “They only made a couple of batches of them, made them from our very own Tilling sand and for our very own Tilling fishing boats.  This float and Mr Pillson’s lamp will make our Ypres Tower display stand out!”
     Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was recognized and praised the donations from her friends the Pillsons.  “. . . and that smuggler’s lamp is wonderful,” she said, smiling ferociously, “if a little rusty.”
     Georgie glanced at Lucia, and both suppressed smiles.  The elevation of the Pillsons to full members was unanimous; Elizabeth voted “Yea” in her most cooing voice and gave her friends a sweet smile.
     After the meeting adjourned, the group had tea and biscuits.  Percy and his brother Georgie approached Lucia and her husband Georgie.
     “Election's in two weeks,” said Percy quietly, for fear of being overheard by Elizabeth Mapp-Flint.  “I’m grateful to you for letting us nominate you.”
     “I have a duty to Tilling and must shoulder the burden resolutely,” said Lucia.  “How you all work me!” she laughed.
     “Spiffing lantern, that,” said Georgie of the Gasworks, after rapidly swallowing a biscuit. “But a little rusty,” he mimicked Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, but not quite as accurately as Quaint Irene Coles was able to do.  “Marvellous, rust or no rust!”  Georgie Pillson thanked him.  
      Percy  said, “I haven’t thought about the glassworks in, well, I don’t know how long.  Never thought to see one of those floats again.  Maybe our great-granddad helped make it!”
     “Here she comes!” warned Percy’s brother, and they stepped back to make room for Elizabeth.
     “How delightful to have you join us!” she said as she kissed the air next to Lucia’s cheek and then shook Mr Georgie’s hand.  She did not offer her hand to Georgie of the Gasworks nor to Percy of the Drains.
     “And we are delighted to be here,” said Lucia.  “But where is Major Benjy tonight?  Has he lost interest in history?”
     “Strained a muscle playing golf,” said Elizabeth with alacrity.
     More likely staying in so he can drink without Elizabeth’s interference, thought Georgie, as Lucia’s gimlet eye pierced Elizabeth’s piffle.
     “Do tell him that we hope he feels better soon,” said Georgie.  “Look, Lucia, there’s Mrs Brace trying to get our attention.  Please excuse us.”
     Elizabeth felt she had done more than enough of being kind for one evening.  If I have to express enthusiasm one more time for Lucia’s joining, I’ll have a blister on my tongue, she thought.  She sat aside her half-empty cup of tea and her uneaten biscuit, and she slipped out of the Institute unnoticed for the cold walk back to Grebe.

~~~~~~~~~~

     During the two weeks between the regularly-scheduled meetings of the Tilling Historical Society, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint invited Mrs Brace and some of the other lady members to Grebe for tea.  Mrs Brace had little liking for Elizabeth, who had repeatedly snubbed her when she and her son first moved to Tilling not so many years ago, and she declined Elizabeth’s proffered hospitality. 
      Elizabeth was, if anything, a woman firm in resolution, and she provided a tea which bordered on decadent for the other ladies.  She spoke to them in her most velvety voice and poured her syrupy praise on a hideous hat and a remarkably bad hairstyle in order to gain, she hoped, their votes.  But several of the ladies were married to local tradesmen and had heard, if not been party to, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s vituperative arguments over her bills. 
     Major Benjy appreciated the unaccustomed voluptuousness of the tray of leftovers from the tea, which he was served for dinner.  “You should invite the historical ladies over more often!” he suggested to his wife.
     “Anything to keep Lucia from becoming President!  I have been ordering the best cuts of beef and lamb, grouse and partridge, and pâté de fois gras so that the butcher, the poulterer, the grocer, and their wives will vote for me,” said Elizabeth grimly.  “Why, I’ve even given away jars and jars of my jelly and jam in hopes of winning votes!”
     Major Benjy, who was vastly enjoying the culinary part of his wife’s campaign for President, said encouragingly, “Just keep it up, Girlie!  You’ll be elected President if those fools know what’s what!”
     Hence, the two weeks passed quickly for Elizabeth, who campaigned everywhere she could think of.  In the High Street, she urged her friends Diva Plaistow and Mr and Mrs Wyse to join the Society.  “So much history in our quaint little Tilling,” she trilled with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.  The wind was cold and she envied Mrs Wyse her sable coat and muff and her Rolls Royce. 
     “Speaking of Quaint,” said Mr Wyse, bowing to “Quaint” Irene Coles who was striding toward them. 
     Elizabeth hastily excused herself, “Must run!  So many errands for my Benjy-boy,” she said as she fled.  If there was a person in Tilling that Elizabeth hated more than Lucia, it was Irene Coles.  Irene was a dreadful mimic, and her outspoken and mannish behaviour was feared by Elizabeth, who could never win when verbally jousting with Irene.  Irene’s vulgarity either cowed or stung Elizabeth, although the rest of Tilling seemed undisturbed and even amused by it.  Only Lucia could bring Irene to heel and curb her tongue.
     “Don’t run off, Mapp!” Irene shouted loudly at Elizabeth’s retreating form.  Elizabeth waggled her hand in the air without turning around and continued on her way.
     “Any news?” asked Irene as she began to fill her pipe.
     “Elizabeth joined the Historical Society—,” said Diva.
     “And then Lucia and Mr Georgie joined,” interrupted Susan Wyse; “so Elizabeth says they’re copying her.”
     Diva continued, “—and there’s an election for President soon, and Elizabeth wants to win.”
     Irene gave out a coarse laugh.  “That’ll be the day!  She’ll never defeat my Lucia!”
     “I don’t know,” said Susan, “with Lucia and Mr Georgie being new members—”
     Diva responded with an interruption of her own, “Elizabeth’s a new member herself, just joined a couple of months ago.”
     Mr Wyse, as usual, held himself aloof from the conversation, although he was listening intently.  Now he interjected, “Susan, my dear, your dental appointment. . . .”
     “Of course, Algernon,” replied Susan.  To Diva and Irene she said, more grandly than necessary, “Please excuse us.  I have an appointment to keep.”
     Mr Wyse bowed to Diva and then to Irene as he bid them “adieu”.  As the Wyses swept away, Diva looked enviously after them.  “Must be delightful to have a warm fur coat on a day like today.”
     “I can find you a nice pea coat down on the quay, if you like,” offered Irene.  “Might even find you one with a warm sailor still in it!”  With her pipe clenched between her teeth, she tilted her head to the side and smiled lasciviously at Diva, who snorted in response.
     “No thanks.  No pea coat.  No sailor,” said Diva.  “Do drop in for tea some afternoon.”  Diva ran a tea shop out of her house four afternoons a week.
     “I will if you’re paying,” said Irene, batting her eyes at Diva, who snorted again.
     “Au reservoir,” said Diva. 
     Removing her pipe from her mouth, Irene bowed in perfect imitation of Mr Wyse.  “Until teatime, dear lady,” she said in dulcet tones.  As she straightened up, she added, “As long as I get a discount.”
     “Huh!” Diva responded and walked away.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The two weeks passed more slowly for Lucia who campaigned not at all.  Or almost.
     “Don’t you think you should have the Historical Society to tea?” asked Georgie.  “Diva says Elizabeth’s campaigning hard.  Ordering pheasant and lamb and other things in order to sway the members.”
     “No, Georgie; I do not think they want Elizabeth as President, so I am doing just the opposite.  Besides, as new members it would be rude of us to force our way in like Elizabeth,” replied Lucia.  “And there have been no official nominations.”
     “Your Town Surveyor says they nominate and vote all at once to avoid campaigning,” said Georgie.
     “That is wise; it avoids unnecessary friction,” Lucia paused. Then as if changing the subject, she said, “Percy, ‘my Town Surveyor’ as you call him, has been a font of information:  Mrs Rice is working on a monograph about old teddy bears to present to the Society, and Mr Sturges, the curate, is an expert on the history of fishing in Tilling, and Percy himself is studying the history of municipal improvements, which is surprisingly interesting.  And Dr Brace has presented two papers on old medical practices that have been discredited, complete with what he called ‘quack kits’, one of which gave electric shocks and another that created static electricity,” explained Lucia.  “So when I ran into Mrs Rice I told her how much I was looking forward to her presentation, and I expressed my interest in his ‘quack kits’ to Dr Brace, and I asked Mr Sturges for his opinion of my fishing float.”
     “So you are campaigning, just not so loudly as Elizabeth,” said Georgie with satisfaction.

~~~~~~~~~~

      As with all groups, the Tilling Historical Society had many members, but the group that attended all, or most, of the meetings was small.  For this meeting, the Institute was almost full, as members who usually were too busy to attend suddenly found that they wanted to vote.  Elizabeth’s sumptuous tea and the unprecedented fact that she had paid her bills two weeks in a row without argument had summoned these less-active members to the Institute.
     Mrs Brace tapped her gavel and the room fell silent.  “As you know, this is my last night as President.  Do we have anyone who would like to become the next President?  Nominations, please.”
     As instructed, Major Benjy hastily stood, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, and nominated his wife.  “Mrs Mapp-Flint has lived in Tilling for many years, and she has access to the deceased Captain Puffin’s unpublished notes on the Roman roads built across the marsh—a work of tremendous import to Tilling.”
     “Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace.  “Anyone else?”
     Percy the Town Surveyor stood and nominated Mrs Emmeline Pillson.  There were some blank looks, until the members recalled that Lucia’s given name is Emmeline.  “She can lead us in the right direction, if anyone can.  The displays for the Tower will benefit greatly from her fund-raising abilities and the Society overall will benefit from her municipal connections.”
     “Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace again.  “Anyone else?”
     Georgie of the Gasworks had heard of the tea party given by Mrs Mapp-Flint and was afraid that she might win the election.  So, unaware that he might be splitting the vote, he impulsively stood and nominated Mr George Pillson, who looked shocked, then pleased.  “Seeing as Mrs Pillson is so busy with her municipal work, I don’t want to burden her further.  I think Mr Pillson would be a good leader, and I’m sure that Mr and Mrs Pillson support one another’s good works,” he explained. 
     “Nomination duly noted,” said Mrs Brace for a third time.  “Anyone else?”
      There were no more nominations.  Slips of paper were distributed, and all of the members voted; Lucia voted for Georgie, and Georgie voted for himself.  Georgie of the Gasworks voted for Mr Pillson and, by nudging his brother Percy, who sat beside him, and surreptitiously nodding toward Mr Pillson, he got Percy to vote for Mr Pillson also.  Mr Sturges, the curate, voted for Lucia, for he thought she played piano divinely and was hoping that she would host more of her musical evenings to which he would be invited; her donation of the fishing-net float made in Tilling delighted him and he was eager to discuss it further with her.  Major Benjy surprised himself by voting for Georgie (he later rationalized that “history should be kept in the hands of men, even if that man is Miss Milliner Michelangelo”).  And Elizabeth Mapp-Flint voted for herself.  The voting slips were gathered in, and Mrs Morrison, who was the Secretary, tallied the vote, noting with a suppressed smile that the only vote for Mrs Mapp-Flint was her own. 
      The extravagant tea, the luxurious orders, and the uncontested payment of bills had all worked against Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, for they had reminded everyone how spendthrift and argumentative was her usual behaviour.  The words of the Foreman of the Gasworks had carried much weight with the Society members, and there was a clear winner.  The Secretary passed to Mrs Brace a slip of paper with the winner’s name on it. 
      Mrs Brace stood.  “The votes are in and have been tallied.  I am happy to officially pass the Presidency of the Tilling Historical Society over to Mr George Pillson!” She held out the gavel to Georgie, who rose and accepted it.  
      There was applause, the sound of which covered the sound of Elizabeth’s gnashing teeth.  Then she remembered that she was in public, so she attempted to smile sweetly and look a bit forlorn at the same time as she joined in the applause.
      Again the meeting ended with tea.  Lucia was talking with Georgie of the Gasworks.  “I bought one other item whilst shopping for my fishing-net float but, until I can get it professionally evaluated in London, I shall hold off on donating it.  A rather nice sword.  If it is from the correct period, we can say it was a smuggler’s sword, perhaps,” said Lucia brightly.  “I am told that Major Benjy also donated a sword.”
      “Yes; it isn’t antique, any more than the Major himself, but it will do for our armoury display,” said Georgie of the Gasworks.
      “There’s a little shop in Hastings that had an interesting display of knives, if you need more for the armoury.  Quite inexpensive, I think because they’re ‘second-hand’ instead of ‘antique.’ I can give you the address.  But I should warn you that the shop is in a rough neighbourhood.”
     Georgie Pillson joined them.  “Thank you so much for nominating me.  I must say I was shocked that you should want me as president, but I shall do my best.”
      Percy chipped in, “It was a stroke of genius, Georgie Old-Boy,” he nodded to his brother.  Turning to the newly-elected President of the Tilling Historical Society, he said, “And I’m sure you have some ideas about fund-raising for us, President Pillson.”  He turned to Lucia.  “How well we remember the fête in aid of the hospital that you held in the garden at Mallards House soon after you came to Tilling.”
      “Yes,” said Lucia.  “My Georgie and I will think of something.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     “Heard you lost,” Quaint Irene greeted Elizabeth then next day in the High Street.
     “It is just as well.  As my Benjy-boy points out to me, we have very little time to put into research of the sort that the Historical Society desires,” replied Elizabeth.
     “So you lost,” said Irene, who was not to be distracted by an historical red herring.
     “With my municipal duties as Councillor and Mayoress, my Benjy was complaining that I am away from husband and home far too much.  He is insisting that we resign our memberships.”
     “So you lost,” said Irene, who was not to be distracted by a municipal red herring, “and now you’re giving up,” she added.
     Elizabeth bridled.  “Not at all.  Simply obeying my husband.  One day when you’re married, you may understand the bonds between man and wife.  Until then. . . .” Elizabeth broke off as Diva trundled up. 
      Diva’s arrival kept Quaint Irene, who was not to be distracted by a marital red herring, from again saying, “You lost, and now you’re giving up.”  Because of her odd, birdlike walk, Diva looks like a sparrow who just caught sight of a worm, thought Elizabeth, and I’m the worm.
      “So sorry you lost,” began Diva.  The subtle approach was not Diva’s forte, but she was not malicious in her bluntness, which Irene certainly was.
      Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond but Irene cut in, demanding, “Did you get Lucia’s invitation to dinner for tomorrow night?”
     “Yes,” said Diva.
     “I’ll see you then.  Off to paint the quay.  I’ll keep an eye out for a suitable sailor to share his pea coat with you,” Quaint Irene gave Diva a leering wink and walked off.
     Diva looked at Elizabeth, and without bothering to explain about the pea coat, Diva asked, “You did get invited, too?”
     “Yes,” affirmed Elizabeth, “but it would be inappropriate in the current circumstances for myself and my Benjy-boy to attend.”
     “What circumstances?” demanded Diva.  “Just be a graceful loser and come.  Congratulate Mr Georgie.”  Not for the first time Diva urged, “Rise above it, Elizabeth!”
     Elizabeth felt she should be pressed further before giving in.  “Diva, dear; Mr Georgie has no experience as the leader of an organization.  My Benjy says he will have us all looking quite the guy and dressed in tights.  I do not want make a travesty by dressing up as something I am not.  Major Benjy is urging me to resign, and he intends to resign himself.”  The first part of this was mendacious; Major Benjy was not urging her to resign, although he had spoken of resigning himself, thinking he would get two evenings each month in which he could enjoy a drink without his wife’s interference.
     “Look at it this way,” countered Diva.  “Free dinner.  You’ll get to hear if Mr Georgie has any plans for fancy dress. I, for one, hope he has; I enjoy dressing up.”
     “We all know you do, dear,” said Elizabeth acidly.  “I shall see what my Benjy has to say.  Perhaps we will come.” 
      “Or if Mr Georgie has any other plans.  I’m thinking of joining if he’s planning another fête.”
      “You might want to reconsider, dear.  Dressing up is one thing but taking a serious interest in history is another.”
      Diva suppressed a snort.  “History can be made to be fun,” she said, “and if anyone can make it fun, Mr Georgie can.”
      Thus the two ladies parted.


THE END


For further information, please visit http://www.ryemuseum.co.uk/index.php/2009/03/smuggling/


Text Copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford