One of the most melancholy tasks imposed upon the good people of Tilling by the war was firewatching from the church-tower. What was so pleasant and vital during the day (namely looking down from high places at what was going on) was a dreary business by night, with no one about and no news, and the miserable possibility of seeing something catch fire (although mercifully such events were rare). Even the ladies of Tilling, who would generally find enough topics of conversation in the doings of their neighbours to last forever, generally fell silent after a few hours of this unpleasant duty. Yet none shirked their turn, and Mr. Rice the poulterer, who was now the A.R.P. warden, had no gaps in his roster. Susan Wyse in her sables, Lucia with one of her first husband’s telescopes, even Diva, whose short, round shape was ill designed for scrambling up spiral staircases, all took their places at the appointed time. By a monstrous error on Mr. Rice’s part, it was Elizabeth and quaint Irene who kept watch on the evening of the day after the disastrous tea party.
‘Qui-hi, Auntie Betty!’ exclaimed the quaint one, in accents redolent of Sefton Park. ‘I like a spot o’ fire-watching meself though this tower’s a bit too high off the ground for an airman like me.’
Elizabeth bit her tongue. Although she was tempted to say something rather acid in reply to this childish taunt, her wit was alkaline compared with that of Irene Coles. If the two of them were to be marooned on a church-tower for any length of time, a state of armed neutrality should be arrived at.
‘Naughty girl!’ laughed Elizabeth tolerantly. ‘How wicked of you to tease me with that affectionate nick-name. So sorry you couldn’t have come to meet my dear Herbert. I feel you and he would have had so much in common.’
‘Common sounds about right, from what I’ve heard. Still, we Socialists are above such things, aren’t we, Comrade Mapp?’
‘So few young people in Tilling these days,’ ground on Elizabeth. ‘Only the old fogies left. And no doubt you feel a little lonely, now that a certain rather special person has gone away.’
‘Who?’ asked Irene. ‘Mr. Georgie?’
‘No, dear, a certain officer in the Staffordshire Regiment,’ said Elizabeth, grimly coy. Attack, the best form of defence.
‘What, old Henry? Come off it, Mapp!’ The quaint one hooted with laughter that echoed off the roofs of the ancient town. ‘Glad to see the back of him in the end. I don’t know. Men!’
Elizabeth glowed so red in the dark that she was in danger of being taken for a fire herself.
‘A trifle too blasted familiar, old Henry was becoming,’ continued Irene, ‘so I sent him away with a flea in his ear. He only tried to kiss me in the street. Me! But you know what these soldiers are like, eh, Mapp old girl?’ And she winked and nudged Elizabeth viciously with her elbow.
Elizabeth winced, and her blush threatened to illuminate all Sussex. Attack, it seemed, was a particularly weak form of defence. ‘Oh look,’ she said quickly, and pointed.
‘Where?’
‘Such a pretty full moon, I mean,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘Almost like daylight.’
‘So much easier for those dear little bombers to see their way,’ cooed Irene. ‘Sounds suspiciously like you want them to be able to navigate accurately.’
‘What a wicked thing to say!’
‘I’m not so sure about you, Mapp. On the face of it you’re respectable enough, but you never can tell. And what are these reports I’ve been hearing of lights down on the sand-dunes late at night? Have you been signalling to the U-boats? No wonder you were so keen to scrape acquaintance with Lucia’s officers.’
This level of quaintness would usually be answered by a slammed door and retreating footsteps; sadly, there was no escape. Elizabeth stood up and walked across to the other side of the tower, from which she could look out over the Norman Tower and the ornamental cannon. Thence her beloved Benjy-boy would soon be making his way, on patrol with the Home Guard. Indeed, at that very moment she heard footsteps, albeit more staggering than marching, and the sound of singing. To her disgust she recognised the voice, and recalled that there was an unsavoury little public-house down just below the tower. She stood up again and as Major Benjy, faintly but definitely audible, assured the darkling town that beside the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking eastwards to the sea, there was a Burmah girl a-setting, and that he was sure that she thought of him, she returned to the other side of the tower.
‘For the wind is in the palm-trees,’ warbled Irene in her pleasant contralto, ‘and the temple bells do say .... Oh hello, Mapp. Back already?’ She, like Elizabeth, was blessed with acute hearing. ‘Someone singing in Lion Street. Pretty song. Here, do you think it’s a spy passing coded messages? Or just a drunk?’ Elizabeth set her jaw and did not answer. ‘Rather romantic, I think. As if the boring old church of Tilling was a Buddhist pagoda, and you some saffron-skinned enchantress waiting for his return from the wars. Very touching, I call it, being serenaded like that. Will you join me in a chorus “Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar”?’
Another corner of the church-tower directly overlooked Mallards, and Elizabeth transferred her scowl and herself to it. Perhaps, she thought, a German bomber on its way somewhere might accidentally drop a stick of bombs on her ancestral home. She would, of course, be heartbroken, but then again, Lucia might be at home tonight playing her piano or reading Aristophanes in the study. That would be something ....
Irene, as was her custom on these occasions, had set up her easel and begun to paint. She had begun a series of studies of Tilling by night, all of which were almost completely black.
‘It might interest you to know that I got my call-up papers today,’ she shouted.
‘No!’ cried Elizabeth. Within her, her heart sang as loudly as Major Benjy and much more tunefully. ‘How cruel! What a terrible loss to us all! Is there no way of avoiding it? When will you be going?’
‘’Fraid it won’t be for some time yet, Mapp. I’ve volunteered to go and work on the canals. They’ll let me know when they want me. I’ve fixed it up with some pals of mine in London, artists and so on. We’ll be taking a canal boat from ... but I’d better not tell you. Careless talk, you know, and I’m still not sure you aren’t passing messages to Adolf. Only joking. In fact, you ought to come with us, make up a four for Bridge. I like a little flutter meself, don’t I, Auntie Betty?’
‘Alas, I fear that my advanced years would not permit me to be of any use. I leave it all to you young things. So strenuous, hauling those picturesque barges along the towpath. How brave you are!’
‘It ought to be a bit of a lark, I suppose. There, how do you like the effect of that?’
‘Delightful. So full of colour and movement,’ said Elizabeth distractedly, without looking at the pitch-black canvas. ‘Approximately how long before you leave?’
‘Can’t say I’m sure. Not like Mr. Georgie, dashing off to London at a moment’s notice. Have you ever thought of having the inside of Grebe done all in black? Very colourful colour, black. Full of movement. Black walls, black ceilings, black carpets on the floor. Very effective, and keeps the A.R.P. out of your hair. Say the word and I’ll be round in my overalls.’
The war had certainly had an inflationary effect on the value of news in Tilling. The minor incidents of life—Benjy getting tipsy or Diva resurrecting the chintz roses—no longer provided material for two or three days of intense discussion and speculation as they would once have done, for greater and more momentous events were now so plentiful, what with officers and black markets and wireless broadcasts, that there were simply not enough hours in the day to do them justice. Next morning the High Street buzzed with two enormous issues—Irene was going away to lug barges with a lot of painters, and Elizabeth had been appointed head of the Tilling Red Cross, no other candidate having been found to oppose her. In the draper’s queue, Diva imparted these tidings to Evie, who had already heard them from Elizabeth.
‘Head of the Red Cross!’ said Diva. ‘She’s going to be measured for her uniform on Monday. Grey serge with a velour hat to match. Quite a monopoly of uniforms. Major Benjy in his and Elizabeth in hers,’ she concluded enviously, thinking of the grey serge.
Evie gasped. ‘Just like Florence Nightingale! Do you suppose she’ll have a watch pinned on the front, or is that just nurses?’
‘And Irene going to work on the barges with two artists from London. They’ll have lots of time for painting, when they’re not pulling the barge along.’
‘Don’t the boats have engines nowadays? I must ask her. Fancy that!’ For a moment Evie wished that she was going away on a barge, or had joined the Red Cross, or was going to broadcast on the B.B.C. or something. ‘Do you suppose Elizabeth will actually tend the sick? How exciting.’
‘Doubt it, even if there were any wounded to tend, which there aren’t, thank God. Hate to think what would happen if the Hun did invade. Major Benjy doing the fighting and Elizabeth looking after the casualties. Not that I don’t think it’s very good of them both. Still, I could have sworn I heard the Major singing in the High Street last night.’
‘No! What?’
‘ “Road to Mandalay”. Almost as if he were tipsy or something. Still, I suppose it was a marching song, though if his men march like that they must get out of step a lot.’
‘They probably do,’ said Evie.
Lucia, hermit-like in Mallards, crunched a piece of carbonised toast topped with some rather unpleasant corned beef from the emergency store, and fought off the despairing thoughts that crowded in on her from every side of the empty house. In front of her was a letter from Georgie.
...will be broadcast on Monday, with me talking about Things To Do With Corned Beef [was there anything, she mused, that anyone could do with corned beef?] and Tasty Ways with Parsnips. Teddy Broome says that that will do to start with, because not everybody can get the ingredients for lobster à la Riseholme, even doing it my way without the lobster. And Lord Tony’s left the Staffordshires and is working here in London, and he says he can’t tell me what he’s doing in case I’m a German. How horrid of him! But he did say that he’s mentioned my cooking to Mr. Churchill. Apparently they were having dinner somewhere and the boiled potatoes had gone all floury. Anyway, they’re all so impressed with my recipes that they want me to do even more broadcasts if the first one is a success, so I don’t know when I shall be back. Foljambe has bought herself a new pair of shoes for the broadcasts—she’s assisting me in the kitchen. Oh, you know that of course. Anyway, take care of yourself. Remember, a pinch of salt makes all the difference to a packet custard.
Your devoted husband,
Georgie
She folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Diva had called earlier to tell her the news—the devastating bombshell about the Red Cross appointment and the grey serge, and the depressing news that Irene was going away. Quaint she most undoubtedly was, embarrassingly so at times, but she was the only other person in Tilling capable of keeping Elizabeth in order. The whole disastrous Bertie incident would be drowned in the flood of grey serge and glory. Why, oh why, had she not thought of it herself? Too wrapped up in officers and cooking and her own unfortunate plight ....
‘It’s too unkind,’ she exclaimed. ‘If only Georgie were here! We would put our heads together and I would be sure to think of something.’
The doorbell rang—so preoccupied had she been that she had not kept her eye on the street—and she remembered that she would have to answer it herself. She slid the piece of toast and corned beef into a drawer, for it would scarcely do for anyone to see her eating such rubbish when her husband was the country’s leading authority on corned beef, and tripped out into the hall. Elizabeth was standing on the doorstep, clad in a uniform that made her look like an enormous grey tent. She’ll be doing her shopping with a lamp in her hand instead of a basket, Lucia thought sourly, for the sight of her rival surrounded by so much grey serge was more distasteful than even toast and corned beef.
‘And how is our dear anchorite today? May I just pop in for a moment? A brief chat about medical matters, since you are still chairman of the hospital board.’ The word ‘still’ stressed a little bit too heavily perhaps. ‘Such a long time since we had one of our little tête-à-têtes.’
‘Dear Elizabeth, how thoughtful of you to come and see me. I feel so very lonely with my dear Georgie away. A letter from him this morning. Doing such good work in London—the first broadcast is on Monday, and already his fame has reached the ears of Mr. Churchill himself. I am inviting everyone to come and listen. It’s at four-o’clock, so we can have tea and perhaps a little Bridge afterwards. And do be sure to get your cook to listen, dear. Such useful ideas! Corned beef and parsnips he promises us, and Foljambe will be helping him in the studio kitchen, handing him his instruments like a nurse assisting a surgeon. Let us go into the garden-room.’
Elizabeth licked her lips. Would Lucia offer her a cup of tea? And if so, would she make it herself? And if so, how horrible could it taste?
‘So sorry you did not drop by earlier,’ drawled Lucia, ‘for then we could have lunched together. Carrot pie and bottled plums—Georgie’s recipe, of course, and there was plenty for two. And to think that, had cook not taken it into her head to fly off to Wolverhampton, neither of us could have learnt to cook, and the nation would have lost the use of an invaluable talent.’
‘What a comfort it is to us to know that our menfolk are doing their bit,’ replied Elizabeth raggedly. ‘I see nothing, positively nothing, of my Benjy these days.’
No, thought Lucia, but you hear enough of him, by all accounts. ‘Indeed,’ she drawled, ‘and how good for him to be able to feel he can still contribute something, however small, towards the war-effort. Not everyone can have a special talent, like my Georgie for instance, but—how does Karl Marx put it?—from each according to his ability. And the Major does have a wealth of military experience, albeit that little of it is likely to be applicable to modern conditions. Whereas—just think! who would have thought Georgie had that priceless gift locked away in his head, like a Gutenberg bible gathering dust in some junk shop, waiting to be discovered. Or,’ she added, for the junk-shop analogy could have been better expressed, ‘even like Sir Francis Drake, poised to return should England ever need him again.’
‘Such a quaint legend!’ said Elizabeth.
The battle-lines were drawn. Lucia clearly would talk of nothing but Georgie, while Elizabeth had determined to speak of nothing but the Red Cross and the Home Guard. Would sheer lung-power decide the issue, or was timing the key to victory?
‘And even little, insignificant I am so pleased, so honoured that the Red Cross saw fit to ask me to join them in their essential work,’ Elizabeth almost shouted, for she had opted for volume against finesse. ‘The care of the sick, so important in wartime.’
‘Oh my dear Elizabeth, it is vital, vital. That is why I bless heaven that I was inspired—it must have been inspiration—to endow the Emmeline Lucas Operating Theatre when I did. Involved as I have been ever since in the running of the hospital, I have been able to reassure myself that in the event—absit omen! —of its being required to do so, the hospital will be able to provide the most up-to-date facilities ....’
‘But surely you will agree that what counts is dedicated and compassionate nursing ....’ howled Elizabeth.
‘Naturally. You have put your finger on the hub of the matter.’ Lucia’s drawl was becoming softer and more relaxed the shriller Elizabeth became. ‘What is the use of the most advanced equipment if the doctors and nurses are not of an equally high standard? And, as chairman of the board of governors, I hope that I have made my small contribution towards setting that excellent standard that now prevails.’
‘Such a blessing,’ snarled her companion, ‘but how valuable is the work of the voluntary services, taking pressure off the overworked ....’
‘Fortunately over half our beds are empty at the moment. But it is such a relief to know that there would be so many willing helpers should they ever be required. What a hive of patriotic endeavour our blessed little town is! I feel it is a legacy of my—of our joint term of public office, this spirit of community, this willingness to devote oneself to the welfare of others.’
‘Major Benjy’s troop is to get an anti-tank projector,’ said Elizabeth desperately.
‘Just the one?’ replied Lucia sweetly. ‘Then let us hope there will be only one tank. Better still, let us hope there will be none at all. So wretched that our dear Home Guard should be in such want of proper equipment. How they can be expected to face the German hordes with inadequate or antiquated weapons I fail to understand. Indeed, I should say that they need better equipment than the Regular forces, so that what they lack in youth, experience and fitness might be somewhat compensated for in superior armament. But enough of these gloomy thoughts. Look! The sun is shining again. How blue the sky is.’
‘And while we yet command that sky,’ ventured Elizabeth, ‘the enemy cannot touch us, thanks to our brave men of the R.A.F.’
Elizabeth realised at once that this was a mistake. She should not have introduced that of all topics. Lucia smiled. ‘Ah yes, an admirable body of young men,’ she said, ‘drawn from all parts of the country and all walks of life, all classes of society, all united in the common cause of freedom. The rank is, after all, but the penny-stamp; that is one thing that the war has taught me. To think that before these dark days, I would not have cared to know some of the fearless airmen who now risk their lives daily both in the air and,’ she added mercilessly, ‘on the ground. Simply because their appetites are material, not spiritual, because they would rather expend their energies on motor-bicycles and whisky than on poetry and music! How blind we are to the good in our fellow-man, until Circumstance fairly takes us by the scruff of the neck and shakes us! I shall never again laugh at anyone because they appear uncouth in their behaviour or commonplace in their speech. Never!’
This eloquent apologia seemed to affect Elizabeth deeply, for she rose as if to leave. ‘Don’t bother to show me out,’ she said, ‘I know how difficult it must be for you without any servants.’
‘Servants!’ cried Lucia. ‘Why, I hardly miss them at all. You see, dear, another disguised blessing of the war. When I had people at my beck and call, to open doors for me and cook all my food, I hardly did anything for myself at all. I was not properly alive. I was cushioned from all the hard realities of the world. How out of touch I was! Now I cook, I clean, I do my share of the work; I don’t think I could bring myself to become reliant on the service of others ever again. Domestic service, I believe, is an institution which should not survive the war. It is demeaning both to the servant and the served. Why, it makes one like a little baby again, who must be washed and fed and clothed by others. So demoralising!’
‘Such a pretty cobweb!’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘How beautifully its silken threads catch the light. So sensitive of you to have left it there when you last dusted. So nice to have had such a pleasant chat.’
‘Monday, four-o’clock, Georgie’s broadcast,’ Lucia called after her retreating form, and retired to finish her toast and corned beef. She must mention that cobweb to the cleaning woman when she came in later on that afternoon.
It was pleasant, she reflected, as she forced her teeth to meet through the slate-like toast, to crush Elizabeth in private, to ignore her uniform (she hadn’t referred to it once) and to drown her in Georgie and Socialism. She was flexing her dialectic muscles, performing intellectual callisthenics. In public, of course, it would not be so easy. Uniforms, and Red Crosses, and soon no doubt anti-tank projectors, fascinated the easily led citizens of the town, and she knew that they would be impatient to see battle joined between herself and the pretender to her throne. As if there were not enough conflict in the world .... But the thought of Georgie’s broadcast, and the tea and Bridge to follow, inspired her. She pushed away her plate (the char could see to it later) and went forth into the street, eager to know what quaint Irene had said about Elizabeth as grey-serge-clad comforter of the sick, and whether Major Benjy had really sung ‘The road to Mandalay’ in a drunken voice all over the town the other night.
The Padre was coming out of the church as she walked around the charming square, with its timbered houses and low windows.
‘Guid morrow to ye, Mistress Pillson. And have ye heard from that guid man o’ yourn that’s awa in t’city o’ Lunnon?’ The Padre had added Captain Oldshaw’s Yorkshire and Bertie Mapp’s Sefton Park to the Woolton Pie of language that he spoke. ‘Happen he’ll be ready soon to gi’ us his first wee talk on mekkin t’most of our ration-books.’
‘A letter only this morning. Monday, at four-o’clock. So you and dear Evie must come and listen with me, and a little tea and Bridge to follow. He says the first talk will be on corned beef and parsnips.’
‘No!’ exclaimed the Padre, fascinated. ‘And what will he find tae say about sich puir fare? ’Twud be like to our Lord turning t’water into wine, an he ken a way o’ turning corned beef into victuals.’
‘Oh fie, Padre, such blasphemy! I shall stop up my ears,’ replied Lucia, delighted to find that Georgie’s glorious deeds were the subject of such interest. ‘And now you must tell me what’s been happening, for I have been so isolated in my little house of late that I hardly know whether the town is still here or not. How is dear Elizabeth? And the Major?’
‘So ye’ve no heard about Mistress Elizabeth’s glorious new appointment?’ declared the Padre, and went on to reveal that Elizabeth and the Major were in especial favour at the moment. He waxed almost lyrical about the Red Cross, and the anti-tank projector was clearly a gift from the Almighty. The projector, it appeared, was a sort of device that hurled bombs at an approaching tank, and although no one could work it and there were no bombs to go with it at present, could clearly turn the tide of a battle, should such an unfortunate situation arise. The Padre had therefore chosen as the text of Sunday’s sermon ‘He breaketh the bow, and knappeth the spear in sunder, and burneth the chariots in the fire.’ A tank, after all, was a sort of modern chariot, and the projector would doubtless have a similarly devastating effect on bows and spears were it to encounter them.
Thoughtfully Lucia made her way down the narrow street overlooked by the magnificent tower of the church, and knocked at the door of Wasters. She issued her invitation to Diva, and was quizzed about the broadcast, which was pleasant, but was also briefed on Elizabeth’s saintliness, which was not. Vexed by this, she took herself off to Taormina, to imbibe some venom from Irene, who obliged with a fine imitation of Elizabeth tending a sick airman from Sefton Park. This pleasure was muted by an encounter with the Wyses, who praised Elizabeth but did not ask about Georgie until she prompted them to it. As she returned to Mallards, she felt that the contest was evenly balanced, neither side having the advantage. One notable success, or one disaster, would settle it. If she failed to provide drinkable tea and edible toast on Monday, or if Major Benjy’s new projector went wrong or blew up a cow, then Tilling would desert the failure and adhere to the other. But if Georgie’s parsnips were a success, or if Elizabeth contrived to tend a sick person before the cessation of hostilities, then the successful candidate would enjoy the adulation of the masses, and her rival must be forgotten.
Sunday was a tense, anxious time, and the usual assembly at the church-door brief and unusually tactful. The Padre’s sermon had praised the anti-tank projector, but the second lesson had been the miracle of the loaves and fishes, which must remind everyone of the forthcoming miracle of the parsnips and corned beef. Scriptural references to the healing of the sick had endorsed Elizabeth, but the Lord’s Prayer itself, with its reference to daily bread, had favoured Lucia. The heavenly powers, then, were undecided. Lucia spent the evening at the piano; Elizabeth bandaged Withers until that worthy soul protested that she must go and make the dinner.
Monday morning passed slowly, and in the High Street the queues in the shops hissed with whispered speculation. Corned beef was in unusually great demand, and parsnips, which were as a rule easily obtainable, suddenly became as scarce as truffles. Lucia noticeably bought both, while Elizabeth examined everyone minutely for the slightest signs of ill health. Lunch was hurriedly consumed, and Patience cards laid out to beguile the impatience of expectation. A light shower began at half-past two. Would someone slip on the wet cobbles in West Street and twist their ankle, so that Elizabeth could render medical assistance?
The wireless had been installed in the garden-room ever since the outbreak of war, and the chairs were arranged around it as for a concert or recital. Elizabeth sat in the front row, wearing more grey serge than ever and smiling sweetly, beside Lucia, who was also smiling, and who gripped a notebook with which to take down Georgie’s every word in case anyone missed anything. The room filled up, and the apparatus was switched on. There was the usual humming, as of countless bees busy about a honeypot, a few sharp crackles, and a faint sound, growing more distinct. There were a few minutes to go before the appointed time for the broadcast and the previous programme, a collection of popular songs sung by some female or other, was not yet finished. Lucia assumed the pained expression usually reserved for the gramophone, and waited. The voice, albeit cacophonous, was somehow familiar ....
‘That was Miss Olga Bracely,’ crackled the wireless, ‘singing for us some of the numbers that she will be performing before an invited audience Somewhere in London tomorrow night.’
The gramophone face was replaced by a look of shock and horror. If Olga was going to sing in London tomorrow, if she was in the studio this afternoon broadcasting, then she must be in London, and staying at her house in Brompton Square with Georgie. And no mention of it in his letter! What on earth was she supposed to think about that? Or, for that matter, what could she do about it? She must go to London first thing tomorrow morning.
‘The time is now four-o’clock,’ enunciated the wireless, oblivious of Lucia’s suffering. ‘Mr. George Pillson will now address us on “Making the Most of Your Ration-Book”. ’
A pause, interrupted by a crackle from the apparatus, and then Georgie’s voice, sounding sheepish but marvellously clear.
‘Hello everybody,’ said Georgie. ‘I’m going to talk to you today about “Making the Most of Your Ration-Book”. Oh, he’s just said that, how tar’some. As you may know, corned beef is a highly nutritious form of preserved meat, and can, with a little care, be transformed into a tasty and appetising dish. Here, then, is my recipe for corned beef à la Riseholme, to feed a family of two adults and two children. This is very economical and simple to make, and requires two ounces of corned beef. First, we weigh out the corned beef—hand me the scales, Miss Foljambe ....’
Mouths watered and imaginations ran riot as Georgie went through the recipe for corned beef à la Riseholme. Elizabeth alone remained stonily smiling, except when Georgie appeared to have knocked something over, probably a cup of milk, and said ‘Drat the thing!’ quite audibly, whereupon she permitted one of her eyebrows to rise slightly. The other guests, meanwhile, were as if transfixed, and the Padre licked his lips loudly several times. Corned beef à la Riseholme was followed by parsnip-and-potato pie, the mere assonance of which was enough to conjure up visions of replete and satisfied gourmets pushing back their chairs and voicing their praise of the cook.
‘Next week,’ concluded Georgie, ‘we shall be making the best of rabbit and seeking substitutes for the artichoke. Goodbye, everyone. Are we off the air now? Oh!’
Victory was Lucia’s, and such a victory! Yet she paid as much attention to the chatter of her guests as she would to idle talk of the weather. She could see only unpleasant conspiracy and distasteful intrigue. Georgie and Olga. Of course, they would dine together and congratulate each other on their cleverness, and perhaps Georgie might be persuaded to produce his celebrated parsnip-and-potato pie, or even corned beef à la Riseholme. The fact that all over the country, from Truro to Thurso, her Georgie’s recipe would undoubtedly be followed to the letter was no consolation to her; rather the reverse. The ovation he had received in Tilling Institute had been enough to make him abandon his wife and home for the glamour of London. What effect would the praise and respect of the entire nation, the eloquent praise of the epicure who could once again enjoy artichoke where no artichokes were, the grunted thanks of the coal-miner whose evening was illuminated by a glorious carrot pie, have upon his weak and vacillating mind? He would probably never come back now; he would tour the country with Olga, she singing vulgar songs, he giving cookery demonstrations, the length and breadth of Britain and the Empire, unless she went to London tomorrow by the first train and stopped him. As she made the tea and brought in the toast and apricot-jam she resolved to do it, and having made the resolution, dismissed the unpleasant matter from her mind, for there was work to be done here. Oh dear, she thought, I hope I’ve made the tea strong enough.
There was comfort at least in the obvious discomfiture of Elizabeth, who was now so cast down that she drank her tea and ate her toast without the slightest grimace.
‘’Twud be a bonny thing if a’ the menfolk o’ Tilling would do so much tae help their country,’ she heard the Padre remark to Diva. ‘Sich a canny way wi’ t’ corned beef, and the disguising o’ t’malice in t’wee parsnips.’
‘Dear Padre,’ cooed Lucia, ‘I am so glad you thought so. And such reflected glory on our dear Tilling.’
‘You must put up a plaque, dear,’ said Elizabeth ironically, ‘to record the fact. “It was in this house that Mr. George Pillson first discovered parsnip pie”, or words to that effect.’
‘I don’t think so, dear,’ replied Lucia in her very best drawl. ‘It would look so much out of place, and besides, one doesn’t like to appear conspicuous or self-advertising. Service is its own reward, after all.’
‘Never would have thought so much could be done with parsnips,’ wondered Diva. ‘Such imagination. I’ve always been a bit wary of the beastly things, but now I shall have them at least once a week. I wonder what he’ll do with turnips?’
‘Just fancy, Kenneth,’ squeaked Evie, ‘and you always said that parsnips weren’t fit for human beings to eat, not if they were starving in the desert, and it was a waste of valuable land growing them.’
‘That was before yon master chef created sich a fine recipe. Why, I’ll warrant he could conjure toothsome viands out o’ firewood.’
‘I too must confess that parsnips have never been greatly to my taste in the past,’ added Mr. Wyse solemnly, ‘but thanks to your talented husband, Mrs. Pillson, I feel that I am now much more aware of the potential of the vegetable. Susan, my dear, we must persuade our cook to make us parsnip pie this evening, and corned beef à la Riseholme tomorrow. And as soon as the recipe has been mastered—and so lucidly expressed was it by Mr. Pillson that I feel confident that the process will take no great time—it would be a signal honour, Mrs. Pillson, if you would dine with us and give, so to speak, your endorsement to our cook’s interpretation of the recipe.’
‘Delighted, Mr. Wyse,’ said Lucia. ‘Now then, a little rubber of Bridge? Excellent.’
But before the tables could be ordered and partners chosen, there was a furious knocking and ringing at the front-door. Lucia rose swiftly and answered it. On the step stood Major Benjy in his uniform, looking pale and haggard.
‘Is my wife here, Mrs. Pillson? I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for her. In the garden-room? Thank you.’
The Major fairly raced through and leapt up the steps in a manner that belied his years. Elizabeth was in the process of trying to understand Diva’s bid, and the unexpected intrusion of her husband caused her to drop her band, which was heavy with aces.
‘I’ve got something to tell you, Liz,’ said the Major. ‘Only just heard it myself. I had a message from the officer commanding the new garrison. They’re carrying out manoeuvres near the river and the fact of the matter is, we’re going to have to get out of Grebe for a while. Well, to cut a long story short, they want us out by tomorrow lunchtime, so we’d better start packing now.’