The Complete Mapp & Lucia

  “Too good of you,” she said, “but that rosebed is quite sacred, dear Mrs. Poppit. Not all the vigorous young bushes in the world would tempt me. It’s my ‘Friendship’s Border:’ some dear friend gave me each of my rose-trees.”

  Mrs. Poppit transferred her gaze to the wistaria that grew over the steps up to the garden-room. Some of the dear friends she thought must be centenarians.

  “Your wistaria wants pruning sadly,” she said. “Your gardener does not understand wistarias. That corner there was made, I may say, for fuchsias. You should get a dozen choice fuchsias.”

  Miss Mapp laughed.

  “Oh, you must excuse me,” she said with a glance at Mrs. Poppit’s brocaded silk. “I can’t bear fuchsias. They always remind me of over-dressed women. Ah, there’s Mr. Bartlett. How de do, Padre. And dear Evie!”

  Dear Evie appeared fascinated by Diva’s dress.

  “Such beautiful rosebuds,” she murmured, “and what a lovely shade of purple. And Elizabeth’s poppies too, quite a pair of you. But surely this morning, Diva, didn’t I see your good Janet in just such another dress, and I thought at the time how odd it was that—”

  “If you saw Janet this morning,” said Diva quite firmly, “you saw her in her print dress.”

  “And here’s Major Benjy,” said Miss Mapp, who had made her slip about his Christian name yesterday, and had been duly entreated to continue slipping. “And Captain Puffin. Well, that is nice! Shall we go into my little garden shed, dear Mrs. Poppit, and have our tea?”

  Major Flint was still a little lame, for his golf to-day had been of the nature of gardening, and he hobbled up the steps behind the ladies, with that little cock-sparrow sailor following him and telling the Padre how badly and yet how successfully he himself had played.

  “Pleasantest room in Tilling, I always say, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, diverting his mind from a mere game to the fairies.

  “My dear little room,” said Miss Mapp, knowing that it was much larger than anything in Mrs. Poppit’s house. “So tiny!”

  “Oh, not a bad-sized little room,” said Mrs. Poppit encouragingly. “Much the same proportions, on a very small scale, as the throne-room at Buckingham Palace.”

  “That beautiful throne-room!” exclaimed Miss Mapp. “A cup of tea, dear Mrs. Poppit? None of that naughty red-currant fool, I am afraid. And a little chocolate-cake?”

  These substantial chocolate cakes soon did their fell work of producing the sense of surfeit, and presently Elizabeth’s guests dropped off gorged from the tea-table. Diva fortunately remembered their consistency in time, and nearly cleared a plate of jumbles instead, which the hostess had hoped would form a pleasant accompaniment to her dessert at her supper this evening, and was still crashingly engaged on them when the general drifting movement towards the two bridge-tables set in. Mrs. Poppit, with her glasses up, followed by Isabel was employed in making a tour of the room, in case, as Miss Mapp had already determined, she never saw it again, examining the quality of the carpet, the curtains, the chair-backs with the air of a doubtful purchaser.

  “And quite a quantity of books, I see,” she announced as she came opposite the fatal cupboard. “Look, Isabel, what a quantity of books. There is something strange about them, though; I do not believe they are real.”

  She put out her hand and pulled at the back of one of the volumes of “Elegant Extracts”. The door swung open, and from behind it came a noise of rattling, bumping and clattering. Something soft and heavy thumped on to the floor, and a cloud of floury dust arose. A bottle of Bovril embedded itself quietly there without damage, and a tin of Bath Oliver biscuits beat a fierce tattoo on one of corned beef. Innumerable dried apricots from the burst package flew about like shrapnel, and tapped at the tins. A jar of prunes, breaking its fall on the flour, rolled merrily out into the middle of the floor.

  The din was succeeded by complete silence. The Padre had said “What ho, i’ fegs?” during the tumult, but his voice had been drowned by the rattling of the dried apricots. The Member of the Order of the British Empire stepped free of the provisions that bumped round her, and examined them through her glasses. Diva crammed the last jumble into her mouth and disposed of it with the utmost rapidity. The birthday of her life had come, as Miss Rossetti said.

  “Dear Elizabeth!” she exclaimed. “What a disaster! All your little stores in case of the coal strike. Let me help to pick them up. I do not think anything is broken. Isn’t that lucky?”

  Evie hurried to the spot.

  “Such a quantity of good things,” she said rapidly, under her breath. “Tinned meats and Bovril and prunes, and ever so many apricots. Let me pick them all up, and with a little dusting… Why, what a big cupboard, and such a quantity of good things.”

  Miss Mapp had certainly struck a streak of embarrassments. What with naked Mr. Hopkins, and Janet’s frock and this unveiling of her hoard, life seemed at the moment really to consist of nothing else than beastly situations. How on earth that catch of the door had come undone, she had no idea, but much as she would have liked to suspect foul play from somebody, she was bound to conclude that Mrs. Poppit with her prying hands had accidentally pressed it. It was like Diva, of course, to break the silence with odious allusions to hoarding, and bitterly she wished that she had not started the topic the other day, but had been content to lay in her stores without so pointedly affirming that she was doing nothing of the kind. But this was no time for vain laments, and restraining a natural impulse to scratch and beat Mrs. Poppit, she exhibited an admirable inventiveness and composure. Though she knew it would deceive nobody, everybody had to pretend he was deceived.

  “Oh, my poor little Christmas presents for your needy parishioners, Padre,” she said. “You’ve seen them before you were meant to, and you must forget all about them. And so little harm done, just an apricot or two. Withers will pick them all up, so let us get to our bridge.”

  Withers entered the room at this moment to clear away tea, and Miss Mapp explained it all over again.

  “All our little Christmas presents have come tumbling out, Withers,” she said. “Will you put as many as you can back in the cupboard and take the rest indoors? Don’t tread on the apricots.”

  It was difficult to avoid doing this, as the apricots were everywhere, and their colour on the brown carpet was wonderfully protective. Miss Mapp herself had already stepped on two, and their adhesive stickiness was hard to get rid of. In fact, for the next few minutes the coal-shovel was in strong request for their removal from the soles of shoes, and the fender was littered with their squashed remains… The party generally was distinctly thoughtful as it sorted itself out into two tables, for every single member of it was trying to assimilate the amazing proposition that Miss Mapp had, half-way through September, loaded her cupboard with Christmas presents on a scale that staggered belief. The feat required thought: it required a faith so childlike as to verge on the imbecile. Conversation during deals had an awkward tendency towards discussion of the coal strike. As often as it drifted there the subject was changed very abruptly, just as if there was some occult reason for not speaking of so natural a topic. It concerned everybody, but it was rightly felt to concern Miss Mapp the most…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was the Major’s turn to entertain his friend, and by half-past nine, on a certain squally October evening, he and Puffin were seated by the fire in the diary-room, while the rain volleyed at the windows and occasional puffs of stinging smoke were driven down the chimney by the gale that squealed and buffeted round the house. Puffin, by way of keeping up the comedy of Roman roads, had brought a map of the district across from his house, but the more essential part of his equipment for this studious evening was a bottle of whisky. Originally the host had provided whisky for himself and his guest at these pleasant chats, but there were undeniable objections to this plan, because the guest always proved unusually thirsty, which tempted his host to keep pace with him, while if they both drank at their own expense, the causes
of economy and abstemiousness had a better chance. Also, while the Major took his drinks short and strong in a small tumbler, Puffin enriched his with lemons and sugar in a large one, so that nobody could really tell if equality as well as fraternity was realized. But if each brought his own bottle…

  It had been a trying day, and the Major was very lame. A drenching storm had come up during their golf, while they were far from the club-house, and Puffin, being three up, had very naturally refused to accede to his opponent’s suggestion to call the match off. He was perfectly willing to be paid his half-crown and go home, but Major Flint, remembering that Puffin’s game usually went to pieces if it rained, had rejected this proposal with the scorn that it deserved. There had been other disagreeable incidents as well. His driver, slippery from rain, had flown out of the Major’s hands on the twelfth tee, and had “shot like a streamer of the northern morn”, and landed in a pool of brackish water left by an unusually high tide. The ball had gone into another pool nearer the tee. The ground was greasy with moisture, and three holes farther on Puffin had fallen flat on his face instead of lashing his fifth shot home on to the green, as he had intended. They had given each other stymies, and each had holed his opponent’s ball by mistake; they had wrangled over the correct procedure if you lay in a rabbit-scrape or on the tram lines: the Major had lost a new ball; there was a mushroom on one of the greens between Puffin’s ball and the hole… All these untoward incidents had come crowding in together, and from the Major’s point of view, the worst of them all had been the collective incident that Puffin, so far from being put off by the rain, had, in spite of mushroom and falling down, played with a steadiness of which he was usually quite incapable. Consequently Major Flint was lame and his wound troubled him, while Puffin, in spite of his obvious reasons for complacency, was growing irritated with his companion’s ill-temper, and was half-blinded by wood-smoke.

  He wiped his streaming eyes.

  “You should get your chimney swept,” he observed.

  Major Flint had put his handkerchief over his face to keep the wood-smoke out of his eyes. He blew it off with a loud, indignant puff.

  “Oh! Ah! Indeed!” he said.

  Puffin was rather taken aback by the violence of these interjections; they dripped with angry sarcasm.

  “Oh, well! No offence,” he said.

  “A man,” said the Major impersonally, “makes an offensive remark, and says ‘No offence’. If your own fireside suits you better than mine, Captain Puffin, all I can say is that you’re at liberty to enjoy it!”

  This was all rather irregular: they had indulged in a good stiff breeze this afternoon, and it was too early to ruffle the calm again. Puffin plucked and proffered an olive-branch.

  “There’s your handkerchief,” he said, picking it up. “Now let’s have one of our comfortable talks. Hot glass of grog and a chat over the fire: that’s the best thing after such a wetting as we got this afternoon. I’ll take a slice of lemon, if you’ll be so good as to give it me, and a lump of sugar.”

  The Major got up and limped to his cupboard. It struck him precisely at that moment that Puffin scored considerably over lemons and sugar, because he was supplied with them gratis every other night; whereas he himself, when Puffin’s guest, took nothing off his host but hot water. He determined to ask for some biscuits, anyhow, to-morrow…

  “I hardly know whether there’s a lemon left,” he grumbled. “I must lay in a store of lemons. As for sugar—”

  Puffin chose to disregard this suggestion.

  “Amusing incident the other day,” he said brightly, “when Miss Mapp’s cupboard door flew open. The old lady didn’t like it. Don’t suppose the poor of the parish will see much of that corned beef.”

  The Major became dignified.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “When an esteemed friend like Miss Elizabeth tells me that certain provisions are destined for the poor of the parish, I take it that her statement is correct. I expect others of my friends, while they are in my presence, to do the same. I have the honour to give you a lemon, Captain Puffin, and a slice of sugar. I should say a lump of sugar. Pray make yourself comfortable.”

  This dignified and lofty mood was often one of the aftereffects of an unsuccessful game of golf. It generally yielded quite quickly to a little stimulant. Puffin filled his glass from the bottle and the kettle, while his friend put his handkerchief again over his face.

  “Well, I shall just have my grog before I turn in,” he observed, according to custom. “Aren’t you going to join me, Major?”

  “Presently, sir,” said the Major.

  Puffin knocked out the consumed cinders in his pipe against the edge of the fender. Major Flint apparently was waiting for this, for he withdrew his handkerchief and closely watched the process. A minute piece of ash fell from Puffin’s pipe on to the hearthrug, and he jumped to his feet and removed it very carefully with the shovel.

  “I have your permission, I hope?” he said witheringly.

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Puffin. “Now get your glass, Major. You’ll feel better in a minute or two.”

  Major Flint would have liked to have kept up this magnificent attitude, but the smell of Puffin’s steaming glass beat dignity down, and after glaring at him, he limped back to the cupboard for his whisky bottle. He gave a lamentable cry when he beheld it.

  “But I got that bottle in only the day before yesterday,” he shouted, “and there’s hardly a drink left in it.”

  “Well, you did yourself pretty well last night,” said Puffin. “Those small glasses of yours, if frequently filled up, empty a bottle quicker than you seem to realize.”

  Motives of policy prevented the Major from receiving this with the resentment that was proper to it, and his face cleared. He would get quits over these incessant lemons and lumps of sugar.

  “Well, you’ll have to let me borrow from you to-night,” he said genially, as he poured the rest of the contents of his bottle into the glass. “Ah, that’s more the ticket! A glass of whisky a day keeps the doctor away.”

  The prospect of sponging on Puffin was most exhilarating, and he put his large slippered feet on to the fender.

  “Yes, indeed, that was a highly amusing incident about Miss Mapp’s cupboard,” he said. “And wasn’t Mrs. Plaistow down on her like a knife about it? Our fair friends, you know, have a pretty sharp eye for each other’s little failings. They’ve no sooner finished one squabble than they begin another, the pert little fairies. They can’t sit and enjoy themselves like two old cronies I could tell you of, and feel at peace with all the world.”

  He finished his glass at a gulp, and seemed much surprised to find it empty.

  “I’ll be borrowing a drop from you, old friend,” he said.

  “Help yourself, Major,” said Puffin, with a keen eye as to how much he took.

  “Very obliging of you. I feel as if I caught a bit of a chill this afternoon. My wound.”

  “Be careful not to inflame it,” said Puffin.

  “Thank ye for the warning. It’s this beastly climate that touches it up. A winter in England adds years on to a man’s life unless he takes care of himself. Take care of yourself, old boy. Have some more sugar.”

  Before long the Major’s hand was moving slowly and instinctively towards Puffin’s whisky bottle again.

  “I reckon that big glass of yours, Puffin,” he said, “holds between three and a half times to four times what my little tumbler holds. Between three and a half and four I should reckon. I may be wrong.”

  “Reckoning the water in, I daresay you’re not far out, Major,” said he. “And according to my estimate you mix your drink somewhere about three and a half times to four stronger than I mix mine.”

  “Oh, come, come!” said the Major.

  “Three and a half to four times, I should say,” repeated Puffin. “You won’t find I’m far out.”

  He replenished his big tumbler, and instead of putting the bottle back on the table, absently depo
sited it on the floor on the far side of his chair. This second tumbler usually marked the most convivial period of the evening, for the first would have healed whatever unhappy discords had marred the harmony of the day, and, those being disposed of, they very contentedly talked through their hats about past prowesses, and took a rosy view of the youth and energy which still beat in their vigorous pulses. They would begin, perhaps, by extolling each other: Puffin, when informed that his friend would be fifty-four next birthday, flatly refused (without offence) to believe it, and, indeed, he was quite right in so doing, because the Major was in reality fifty-six. In turn, Major Flint would say that his friend had the figure of a boy of twenty, which caused Puffin presently to feel a little cramped and to wander negligently in front of the big looking-glass between the windows, and find this compliment much easier to swallow than the Major’s age. For the next half-hour they would chiefly talk about themselves in a pleasant glow of self-satisfaction. Major Flint, looking at the various implements and trophies that adorned the room, would suggest putting a sporting challenge in The Times.

  “‘Pon my word, Puffin,” he would say, “I’ve half a mind to do it. Retired Major of His Majesty’s Forces—the King, God bless him!” (and he took a substantial sip); “‘Retired Major, aged fifty-four, challenges any gentleman of fifty years or over.’”

  “Forty,” said Puffin sycophantically, as he thought over what he would say about himself when the old man had finished.

  “Well, we’ll halve it, we’ll say forty-five, to please you, Puffin—let’s see, where had I got to?—’Retired Major challenges any gentleman of forty-five years or over to—to a shooting match in the morning, followed by half a dozen rounds with four-ounce gloves, a game of golf, eighteen holes, in the afternoon, and a billiards match of two hundred up after tea.’ Ha! ha! I shouldn’t feel much anxiety as to the result.”

  “My confounded leg!” said Puffin. “But I know a retired captain from His Majesty’s merchant service—the King, God bless him!—aged fifty—”