Lucia Triumphant (2 page)

‘
I believe you may have something there,
Georgino mio
, the kernel of an idea, perhaps the idea itself. Yes, yes, I can see it in my mind's eye. I seem to see something on the lines of the Bayeux Tapestry—but it was not a tapestry but an embroidery, as I recall—stylised and quaint yet immensely vivid and immediate. Realism without naturalism, Georgie, is a leading
motif
in Modern Art. There is a move away from the struggle to perfect the reflection of Nature in Art's mirror, which I attribute to the all-pervading effects of photography. But I digress. It's quite an inspiration, Georgie. I insist that you make a few preliminary sketches, based on Norman and Carolingian originals, but incorporating your own unique talent, for you must serve the tradition without being its slave. Remember you are an artist, not a draughtsman.
Kinde, schaf' neues,
as Wagner is reputed to have said.'

‘
Well, I won't be able to
schaf
anything unless I find my needles,' declared Georgie, who had patiently borne this stream of twaddle. ‘Perhaps they're in the drawer of your desk.' And he slipped the case into the palm of his hand like a conjuror.

‘
I don't think they are, dear,' she said absently, but Georgie, opening the drawer and slipping the case into it, contradicted her with a cry of triumph. ‘How strange!' she said. ‘I was looking in that drawer only a quarter of an hour since. How careless of me!' By which she meant that she had deduced that he had found the needles in his pocket and pitied him for needing to be forever in the right.

‘
Well, now that I've found them, I can start right away,' said Georgie, unabashed. ‘So glad that you approve.'

‘
There is a book of illustrations in the bookshelf on your right,' she said, and returned to her musing, for Georgie's idea had spawned another in her mind. It, too, was only the kernel of an idea, but should the seed germinate, who knew what it might grow into?

 

At her house called Grebe, a quarter of a mile outside the town, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint sat and imposed tea upon her long-suffering husband, Major Benjamin Mapp-Flint, whose disdain for such weak liquor was universally known. At present, however, he thought it politic to acquiesce in his own slow-poisoning in the interests of diplomacy. His was a happy marriage, a lesson to those who would declare that a middle-aged bachelor and a spinster past her first youth are too set in their ways contentedly to pull the yoke of matrimony. Yet he could not help feeling that it would be happier still if his wife were not such a paragon of frugality. For his eye had chanced upon a smart little three-wheeled motor, displayed for sale outside the garage at the foot of the hill below Porpoise Street. He had been sheltering from the rain under the garage's copious awning at the time and therefore had been some minutes in the machine's company. The more he had looked at it, the more it found favour in his eyes; it was gracefully built and rather dashing (for it was open-topped), and motor-racing had of late been featured prominently in the newspapers. Like the Cyclops in Theocritus' poem, the more he looked the more he loved, the more his heart was touched within him, so that by the time the rain had passed away to soak some neighbouring town, notions of owning it, which in his brain were yet fantastical, had assailed him.

For surely he could not persuade his wife to make such a purchase. Besides her economical instincts (an excellent thing in a woman, but not always), there was the fact that they had owned a motor before, which they had been forced to dispose of (as scrap) after an unfortunate collision with the corner of Malleson Street. Although neither of them had been injured, he felt that the incident might prejudice his wife against another venture into the exciting world of motorism. And yet it was a most attractive vehicle in every respect. He had noticed that it was made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company, and although he knew nothing of their motor vehicles, he had heard during his military service that their staple products, according to those who had business with such things, were most serviceable. Secondly, the dealer had assured him, on his subsequent visit, that both the previous owners of the vehicle, two spinster ladies of a neighbouring town, had spoken warmly of it, selecting for especial praise its accurate steering and awesome powers of acceleration.

In his mind he rehearsed various arguments in favour of the purchase. There was, for a start, the long walk into town every day. Although he had never managed to ascertain exactly how old his wife was, he felt sure that the daily exertion must be as tiresome to her as it undoubtedly was to him. The tram-fare to the golf-links, which he loved to frequent, had recently increased by a whole penny. He was no mathematician, but surely the savings on tickets and shoe-leather would rapidly offset the eighty pounds demanded for the motor. And time was of the essence. He did not know whether fishmongers were wealthy men, but he had seen Mr. Hopkins eyeing the vehicle. In fact, Mr. Hopkins passed by it every morning on the way to the Harbour to buy fish; how long could he resist so desirable an object? In addition, Mr. Hopkins had the misfortune to be a bachelor, and so could spend his money on whatever he chose.

Therefore it was necessary that Major Benjy should drink humble tea and speak comfortably to his wife, at least until the motor was in his possession. But the problem of how best to broach the subject remained, and the more compliant he was, the more his wife would suspect him of an ulterior motive and harden her heart against any proposal he might make. He therefore resolved to speak at once, boldly, as befitted a military man, putting his fortune to the test to win or hazard all.

‘
Been to town today, Liz?' he enquired.

‘
Yes, dear.'

‘
Shopping, I'll be bound.'

‘
Yes.'

‘
You know, girlie, I'm worried about your carrying heavy groceries all the way out here every day. Not right that you should be put to the trouble.'

‘
But I'm not put to the trouble, dear. All the tradesmen deliver, albeit erratically, as you would know if you were in more often during the afternoon. But I do not begrudge you your little games of golf. Exercise is so important, after all, and golf is a manly game. There is no need for you to give it up just to carry my shopping basket for me. But sweet of you to offer.'

He didn't remember offering, but that was not unusual. He often could not recall making the promises on which his wife was wont to take him up.

‘
Still, it's a deuced long way in and out of town—one and a half miles if it's a step, the way the road curves round and about. And there's the danger of twisting an ankle on the cobbles. Very irregular in places.'

‘
I know, dear. I have complained personally to our beloved Mayor on more than one occasion, but when it comes to something that would be of real service to the community, she seems to be rather lackadaisical in her attitude. Perhaps she would listen to you.'

‘
I must mention it when next I see her. But it's such a nuisance having to walk into town on these dark nights, now that winter's here again. It takes all the pleasure out of seeing our friends, especially when it's wet. On the other hand, we're admirably settled here at Grebe. Nice spot, quiet, peaceful. So what are we to do?'

Elizabeth studied him carefully over the rim of her tea-cup. She had missed the little ritual of teatime which they invariably performed: Major Benjy would say that he quite fancied a spot of whisky and she would persuade him that he did not. Yet today he had accepted tea without a murmur. Now this unwonted concern about her well-being prompted her to wonder whether he had some foolish plan in mind for which he was anxious to secure her approval. If he had, she would, of course, dismiss it at once.

‘
There's something else, too,' he ground on, unaware that his guile was in vain. ‘Now that you've been appointed Mayoress a second time—the least she could do after getting Miss Coles to stand against you, and who voted for her I can't imagine—you'll be wanting to keep up with civic affairs just as much as ever before, if not more so. Next year to think of, after all. I tell you what, though. I think I know why you didn't get elected this time.'

‘
Oh, do tell me,' said Elizabeth acidly.

‘
Well, it's obvious really. There's Miss Coles parading up and down all day, while you're stuck out here where nobody can see you. No wonder they voted for her and not for you. Out of sight, out of mind, don't you know.'

‘
On the contrary, Benjy. I would have thought that the more the voters saw of Miss Coles, the less they would have liked her, given the tasteless eccentricity of her costume.'

Even as she spoke, it occurred to her that her husband might for once be right. In politics visibility was all, as Lloyd George would undoubtedly have confirmed. At the same time, an explanation for his concern for her political career began to suggest itself. She could read him like a book, although what sort of book he most closely resembled she did not like to imagine.

‘
It is possible,' she conceded, after a sip of tea, ‘but there we are. We cannot carry our dear little house on our backs like snails, to be busy in town during the day and cosy in the country in the evenings. So we must make the best of things.'

‘
But we could make up for that, you know,' he replied. ‘I've often thought it a crying shame that we—I mean you—don't get an official car as Mayoress.'

Elizabeth smiled. So he was thinking those foolish thoughts of which she had not deigned to suspect him.

‘
What sweet nonsense you do talk at times, dear,' she purred. ‘Now you wouldn't want us to be like those dreadful Wyses with their Royce when they drive the fifty yards to Mallards instead of walking. And Lucia herself, with that enormous chariot that she never uses. Too ostentatious for words. Besides it would strike at the very heart of my economic strategy for Tilling, which is, as you should know by now, the ruthless elimination of unnecessary expenditure. It would be a fine thing for me to preach frugality from the back seat of an official Daimler.' Fine indeed; she could just picture it.

‘
Oh, I don't mean that we should get a Rolls or a Daimler like the others,' he said. ‘Something much smaller. More economical. More dignified. Less ostentatious. Why have four wheels when three will do just as well?'

Elizabeth broadened her smile and her perfect teeth (no random work of nature but the product of human craftsmanship) shone like the desert sun on a man dying of thirst.

‘
Alas, I doubt whether we could persuade Lucia and her Council—as she will insist on calling it, and I'm glad I'm no longer a member of it—to buy us even the most modest of cars, one with no wheels at all, let alone three. And since we obviously cannot afford to buy one ourselves, there the matter must rest. Now if Lucia were still living here at Grebe, I expect she would have a private railway built at the rate-payers' expense, and have her own liveried coaches, all in the interest of creating employment, you understand. What a sweet hypocrite our dear friend is. So amusing!'

Benjy snorted, no doubt at the thought of Lucia's hypocrisy, and turned to contemplation of his tea, which was cold. But Elizabeth, instead of persecuting him further as she would normally have done, sat awhile in silence. Why shouldn't they afford a motor, so long as it was small and not liable to involve them in ruinous maintenance? Of course, she, not her husband, would drive it, thus eliminating the risk of further collisions. Driving was easily learnt, so she understood, and she was a quick learner. As for the expense—well, Benjy must never know, but she had recently sold some unprofitable shares and reinvested the money wisely. Eighty pounds might be raised without undue strain, and that would surely be enough to secure a nice little car.

She consulted her watch; it was nearly time to dress for dinner at Mallards, to celebrate Lucia's second term of office. Lucia had, as usual, offered to send the motor over to collect them; as usual she had declined the kind but unnecessary offer. As she rose from the table, rain began to rattle against the window-panes.

 

Irene Coles, artist, Fabian, free-thinker and Town Councillor (an impressive
curriculum vitae
for one who had not yet reached her thirtieth year) sat in her oilskins in the shadow of the Landgate and surveyed the dark clouds over the estuary. The driving rain had extinguished her short clay pipe, so that only a little black silt remained in the bowl, but she was unconscious of that as of all else but the grandeur of the scene that Nature had laid on for her benefit. Shortly she would have to abandon the spot, for she was bidden to attend Lucia's dinner party and Lucia's wish was her command. But she hoped to absorb a little more of the atmosphere if she could (she had absorbed a great deal already, and it was starting to trickle down the back of her neck) for her next work. This was to continue her series of masterly allegorical sketches, in all of which Lucia had appeared as the representative of freedom and civilisation. This latest was to be a version of the Second Coming (Lucia's Second Coming into the Mayoralty), with her darling riding into town on the wings of the storm while the voters of Tilling pulled down and smashed to pieces an enormous statue of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint. Her work on this masterpiece had been frustrated by a period of relatively clement weather, so that she had not been sure where, so to speak, her next thunderstorm was coming from. So she was determined to make the most of this one.