Lucia in Wartime Read online

  ‘Georgino—I mean Georgie,’ said she, as soon as she had reached home. ‘I have an idea.’

  Georgie raised his eyes from a snuff-box he had been engaged in polishing. His poor bibelots had gathered dust in the last few days, for his soul was full of horrors. Foljambe had declared that, since her husband Cadman was away at the wars (he was slightly too old for military service, and had gone to work at the Transport Headquarters at Hove, where he spent most of his time polishing the motors of Generals and Cabinet Ministers, and in sundry other ways devising the downfall of Hitler), she ought to be doing her bit by making bombs at the Ordnance Factory. As a result, he had neglected his bibelots, left a chair-cover, on which he had been embroidering Britannia ruling the Rother Estuary, abandoned half-finished in a cupboard, and lain awake two nights in a row tormented by nameless fears.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Officers, Georgie, from the Harbour. Think of them, pacing up and down their dusty barrack-rooms in the evenings, dwelling on the perils of war, the dangers that lie before them. Allowing their morale to sink into the depths.’

  Georgie shook his head. ‘I thought they had a nice little Officers’ Club in the old Customs House where they can play billiards and ...’

  ‘Billiards, Georgie! What sort of occupation is that for a man who is about to confront the horror of the battlefield? What they need is somewhere where they can refresh their souls with music and poetry and intelligent conversation, to inspire them to go out and fight for the values of civilisation and democracy, where they can get a final taste of what England really means.’

  ‘You mean the Institute?’ asked Georgie, puzzled.

  ‘No, no, Georgie. Why, don’t you see? A salon. Here. At Mallards.’

  ‘Lucia! You can’t!’

  ‘Why not, pray?’

  ‘But really! They’ll drink whisky, and laugh at my embroidery.’

  ‘No, dearest, you are mistaken. Not all soldiers are like poor Major Benjy, boozing and making up vulgar stories about the Pride of Poonah. Imagine, Georgie, if you were an officer stranded in an unknown town, how your heart would yearn for the company of kindred souls, the refreshment of the mind. Oo not be unkind to poor officers, Georgie, make them play billiards all evening.’

  ‘I believe you only want them about the place to score off Elizabeth and Major Benjy. And I’m sure they won’t want to listen to us playing duets or watch us doing tableaux when they could be drinking beer in the Sebastopol Arms.’

  Even as Georgie said this, a light had dawned in his brain, a light as brilliant as the first rays of the morning sun. If they were to entertain officers at Mallards, surely they would have need of at least one permanent member of staff, to wit Foljambe. Even that conscientious person would have to admit that ministering to Lucia’s officers was as much war-work as making bombs at the Ordnance Factory. Foljambe, in other words, would go to sleep in her own little room again.

  ‘And anyway,’ he said cautiously, ‘how do you plan to get hold of all these officers? They don’t come into the town very much.’

  He knew, of course, that Lucia would manage it somehow, through some stroke of luck or Machiavellian effort. Had she not, in the space of a few months in London, filled her house in Brompton Square with duchesses, politicians and flute-playing prizefighters?

  ‘Me must fink,’ said she. ‘But you agree in principle, don’t you? Of course, there will be no question of Foljambe leaving if we do start entertaining in this way. Why, it would be almost like war-work!’

  Every man has his price, thought Georgie, and the value of a parlour maid-cum-valet like Foljambe was far above rubies. Nonetheless, it would not do to be over-enthusiastic. Lucia must not be over-encouraged in her personal war against Germany; really, she was being even more insufferable now than she had been in the first few weeks of her Mayoralty.

  ‘Oh, very well then. But you must catch the officers, and you must entertain them.’

  ‘Thank you, dear, a thousand times. So noble of you. Now we must put our heads together and make our plans. How splendid it is to be doing something at last!’

  Elizabeth, meanwhile, unaware that her military monopoly was so gravely endangered, was sitting in the drawing-room of Grebe. She had found an old pair of velvet curtains which, with a little imagination and a great deal of application, could be turned into an evening-dress. It would, of course, be very heavy and cumbersome, but the thought of appearing in a new costume of red velvet reconciled her to any degree of physical discomfort. Poor Diva had been forced back on chintz roses again, regardless of the disasters that had attended their first appearance, and little Evie Bartlett was now not only a mouse, but a church-mouse as well. Let Lucia attempt to steal this advantage from her if she dared—very fine she would look in an evening-gown of figured damask .... But the heavy material was hard to cut and her fingers were becoming quite sore where the scissors bit into them; and the lines were not really straight, even when the pile of the velvet was taken into account ....

  She turned her mind to the matter of Irene and the enigmatic Henry. Who was he? An officer evidently, and therefore one of the Staffords from the Harbour. But did this mean that Irene had at last fallen victim to the little gentleman with swan’s wings and such cruel arrows, whose marksmanship had (albeit in a rather restrained manner) accounted for Susan Wyse, Emmeline Lucas and herself? Could Irene, she of the moleskin trousers and short clay pipe, have fallen in love? Such an event would indeed be outstanding in the chronicles of Tilling. And would love, that softener of the hearts of tyrants, disarm the tongue of Tilling’s most dreaded mimic, in terror of whom Elizabeth had lived for so many years? She was still young enough, and admittedly still attractive enough, if one disregarded the fishermen’s jerseys; war is a great foster-nurse of love, even between the most unsuitable of people.

  ‘Benjy,’ she said as he entered the room, ‘it’s no use, I shan’t get a moment’s rest until I am certain that dear quaint Irene isn’t exposing herself to the most terrible danger.’

  ‘Riding that bicycle of hers so fast down Porpoise Street?’ hazarded the perplexed Major.

  ‘No, no, I mean allowing herself to fall into the clutches of an unscrupulous man. You know what you wicked soldiers are like for breaking poor female hearts.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, Liz, old girl. But there’s something I must tell you. There’s been a spy arrested in Hastings.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Elizabeth, wide-eyed. ‘In Hastings! Benjy, is this true?’

  ‘I heard it from the Padre,’ said he, simply. ‘Apparently he heard it from Twistevant, whose cousin’s brother-in-law keeps the Seven Stars in Hastings. Anyway, some fella with a funny accent came knocking on the door of the Plough and Harrow, which is just down the road from the Seven Stars, at seven-o’ clock yesterday morning, asking for a bottle of Franklin’s Ale. Now, not only is it funny that a chap should think he could get a drink at seven in the morning in England, but old Franklin sold up two years ago. So the landlady said she was just going down to the cellar to fetch his bottle of ale, and went and telephoned the police. They took him away in an armoured car. Well, what do you think of that, girlie?’

  ‘Benjy, how terrible. German spies just along the coast—why, we shall all be murdered in our beds. What shall we do?’

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’m going to dig out my old service revolver. If anyone comes asking for beer at the King’s Arms at the crack of dawn, they’ll get the shock of their lives!’

  And with this ferocious speech the old soldier went and rummaged about in his desk. Instead of his service revolver, however, he found a flask of whisky, the existence of which he had quite forgotten, and he paused for a moment to stiffen his resolve before arming himself to await the onrush of the hordes of thirsty barbarians.

  News of the spy in Hastings spread through Tilling like wildfire and its inhabitants, who had never been reluctant to observe their fellow-creatures from windows, street-cor
ners or the doorways of shops, redoubled their efforts in the interests of national security. A German agent, entering Tilling from the sea coast, would have had to pass first the sentry-post of Grebe; supposing he managed to get past the untiring eyes of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, and had gained the Church Square without being discovered, he would have to find some way of bypassing the Vicarage and the searching gaze of wee wifie. Even if he was successful thus far, he must then evade the garden-room of Mallards, towering like a hilltop fortress above the narrow street, before passing on to the High Street and certain detection by the ladies of Tilling queuing inside Twistevant’s, or the vantage-point of the front window of Diva’s house, Wasters. Had he as many shapes as Proteus or the ability, like Oberon, to make himself invisible at will, he could never pass by so many eyes without the need of strong refreshment. In order to obtain it he would have to encounter the scrutiny of Major Benjy, who had taken up a regular post at the bar of the King’s Arms; the next German to make the slightest slip in the ordering of alcoholic refreshment would undoubtedly go the way of his predecessor. For his part, the Major had thrown himself heart and soul into this form of war-work, for which he was undeniably well suited. The only doubt left in his mind was whether he would be able to claim reimbursement from the War Office for the occasional whisky-and-soda he was forced to consume from time to time in order to maintain his disguise.

  While on sentry-go in the garden-room one morning, Lucia was allowing her fingers to stray over the keys of her piano when an idea dawned in her mind.

  ‘Georgie,’ she said (for he was there also), ‘an idea!’

  ‘Officers?’ said Georgie gloomily. He had heard many ideas about officers lately.

  ‘No, dearest, just a thought. How shall I put it? You remember how, before Italy removed itself from the circle of civilised nations ....’

  ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘go on.’ He, like Lucia, missed the easy Italian phrases they had been accustomed to slip into their conversation. They had experimented briefly with a number of alternatives of varying difficulty and elegance. French was barred to them, for had not dear Elizabeth once used it to parody Lucia’s Italian? Classical Greek had had a short vogue (‘Diva dear, what a kalon himation! And now I must just pop epi Twemlow’s and see if they’ve got any allanta for our ariston’), but had been abandoned since it rendered their talk completely unintelligible not only to everyone else in Tilling but frequently to each other as well.

  ‘What better decoration for our speech than the language of our dear Polish allies? Such a mellifluous tongue, Georgie, and so much a mark of respect to our intrepid comrades-in-arms.’

  ‘But I don’t know any Polish,’ replied Georgie, ‘and Elizabeth would be sure to tell everyone it was Russian, and I can’t remember if they’re on our side or not.’

  ‘Nonsense, Georgie. I shall send for a Polish phrase-book at once.’

  At this moment Grosvenor entered with the post. There was but the one letter, addressed to Mrs. Pillson. Lucia opened it and presently she almost screamed with pleasure.

  ‘Lucia, what is it?’ said Georgie.

  ‘It’s from Tony Limpsfield—you remember, I made his acquaintance in London. Listen!’

  My Dear Lucia,

  As you may have heard, I have been able to secure a commission in the South Staffordshire Regiment, which is stationed in your divine Tilling. My dear, how marvellously fortunate! To be able to spend a few hours of civilised relaxation, listening to the Moonlight Sonata or wonderful Mozart, before going out on to the battlefields of Europe. Do say that I can call on you while I am in Tilling, and perhaps bring a few fellow-souls with me.

  Your devoted

  Lord Tony

  ‘No!’ said Georgie, profoundly moved. Although he and Lord Limpsfield had not been introduced when the latter had stayed with Lucia in Riseholme while she still lived there, that turbulent weekend when all Riseholme had turned against Lucia, he knew him by sight, and of course he was a friend of his adored Olga Bracely.

  ‘Officers, Georgie! Officers from heaven!’ said Lucia, almost incoherent with joy. ‘At last we shall be able to do something beyond depriving ourselves of butter and sending our saucepans to be melted down!’

  ‘And what price Major Benjy now?’ said her husband. ‘Why, all he’ll be doing is boozing and watching for spies in the King’s Arms.’

  They were both silent for a moment.

  ‘Can he really mean Beethoven and Mozart?’ said Georgie. ‘And to think we’ve been doing without them all this time, and having to make do with beastly Elgar and madrigals. Why, it’s worse than having to make do with powdered eggs instead of real ones!’

  ‘And to think that I believed that those wretched weeks I spent in London were all wasted when in fact they were simply laying the foundations of this vital work that lies before us. It was Destiny, Georgie, Destiny. I feel that my actions in the past have been guided by a greater providence. We must practise as never before, for we shall be playing—how does dear Vergil put it?—not for light or trivial rewards but for the life-blood of our country.’

  So it was that Elizabeth and the Major, passing under the garden-room as they walked into Tilling, heard German music being played there once again.

  ‘Ah,’ said Major Benjy, ‘there’s Mrs. Pillson playing Elgar, no doubt. A great improvement on all that frightful German twaddle she used to make us listen to, eh, girlie?’

  ‘No, Benjy-boy, that is the frightful German twaddle she used to make us listen to. Sometimes I wonder if dear Lucia’s patriotic displays—so forceful, don’t you think?—may mask some slight sympathies towards the enemy. Of course, I would never suggest that she was an active sympathiser ....’

  Major Benjy’s jaw set in an implacable line. If he ever caught Lucia trying to buy bottled beer at the King’s Arms at seven-o’clock in the morning, he would shoot first and ask questions afterwards.

  Captain Anthony, Lord Limpsfield, called at Mallards the next morning. Elizabeth, as it happened, was passing at the time, and she saw the dark-green military car nosing its way along the narrow street and stopping outside Mallards, and the uniformed man step out and ring the bell. Her heart leapt up with involuntary optimism as she recalled how the soldiers had called to take away the Hastings spy in an armoured car, but when the door opened and she heard the rapturous greetings and Dear-Lord-Tonyings that followed, her heart was at once sent plummeting into the pit of her stomach. Who was this terrible officer, calling on dear Lulu and being greeted as an old and intimate friend? Better, she thought, to have German Panzers in Porpoise Street than British Humbers outside Mallards ....

  ‘My dear,’ said Tony Limpsfield, ‘who was that large woman who passed by just now? Such a smile, my dear. I thought she was going to swallow me whole.’

  ‘Poor Elizabeth!’ said Lucia. ‘One of my dearest friends in our little Tilling—Mayoress three times—but such a jealous nature. She cannot bear that anyone else should do anything to help the war-effort. But such a character, and married to the most comical old Major. You shall meet them both, I promise you; they are quite as ludicrous as Queen Charlotte’s mittens that you saw in that dear little Museum in sweet Riseholme. And now, perhaps, a little musica, and then you must tell me all about what you are doing and how the war is going. But, wicked Lord Tony, to encourage me to play Beethoven and Mozart, for are they not German composers? Surely we should be listening to Elgar and sweet Delius?’

  ‘Delius was a German, come to that,’ said Tony Limpsfield, ‘so you can’t have him. I don’t care a fig if you play Wagner, so long as I hear something other than “Rule Britannia” and “Land of hope and glory”, or American jazz, which is all I’ve heard in the last month.’

  ‘Poor Lord Tony! How wretched is the soldier’s lot. Very well then, no more talk, but some delicious Mozart.’

  Lord Tony immediately assumed the listening-to-music face that had been the badge of the secret society of the Luciaphils during those heady days in London, while Luc
ia flexed her fingers and began to play ....

  On his return to the camp in the Harbour, he ran into his fellow-officer Henry Porteous, who was engaged in making a highly stylised sketch of a three-ton lorry.

  ‘I met your lady love in town today,’ he said.

  ‘If you are referring to Miss Coles,’ said Porteous, ‘she’s nothing of the sort. We admire each other’s work, that’s all. Her picture last year—Bellona in arms on the South Coast—a marvellously sardonic treatment of British jingoism. That brilliant face she put on it—everything that’s wrong with this country today. That stupid, complacent smirk! What an artist!’

  ‘From what I gather,’ said Lord Limpsfield, ‘it wasn’t meant to be ironic at all. That brilliant face was based on my friend Mrs. Pillson. Apparently quaint Irene—I mean Miss Coles—regards her as an embodiment of all that’s splendid in the British character in wartime. Serene but dogged resistance.’

  ‘But she looks so damned smug!’

  ‘I know. She’s that too! Listen! You must come and meet her, she’s colossal. I made her acquaintance in London before the war. She lived in a little village called Riseholme in Worcestershire and she was trying to break into London society. She didn’t so much climb as rise effortlessly, like one of those mediums who practise levitation. And such a snob! She went after duchesses like a gundog!’