The next morning found Georgie ensconced in the Palm Court at the Ritz Hotel with his great friend Olga Bracely. Since Olga was one of the great divas of the age, a gratifying number of heads had turned in their direction as they entered, and the pianist had spontaneously broken into ‘La Vergine Degli Angeli’, since Olga had the previous night starred in La Forza del Destino at Covent Garden, with Georgie watching adoringly from a box and weeping buckets into his handkerchief.
They had both risen late in consequence. Georgie had just had time to effect a highly enjoyable promenade among the hatters, perfumers, shirt-makers and tailors of St James’s before returning to the Ritz, where he was staying, dab himself with a newly purchased bottle of lavender water and take the lift downstairs to wait for Olga. He had been tempted to make a grand entrance down the very fine staircase, but the steps of the last two flights were of the finest marble, and he had learned to his cost that marble surfaces and leather-soled shoes (even those made to measure in St James’s) could prove an unhappy combination.
‘So there you are,’ said Georgie as he sipped his gin and it, ‘she’s got this idea into her head that we should go off on a long holiday.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased, darling,’ Olga replied, looking at him reproachfully.
‘Yes, well, I was at first,’ Georgie admitted, ‘but then the more I thought about it, the more I went off the idea.’
‘I would have thought you’d be positively thrilled at the prospect of all that lovely Italy. Just like Boswell on the Grand Tour – or is it Johnson? I never can remember.’
‘Boswell,’ Georgie confirmed automatically, his mind elsewhere. ‘Yes, but that’s it – don’t you see? The Grand Tour. You know what Lucia’s like. It’ll be a different gallery or museum every day, with her holding forth on everything, and me getting a headache from the heat and her going on all the time. I won’t even be able to relax in the evenings, because she’ll make me test her from the guidebook on whatever we’re going to see the next day, so she’ll be ready to appear the great expert all over again. Oh, really. It’s too bad.’
He pouted, looking very sorry for himself.
‘Poor Georgie,’ said Olga, reaching across and patting his hand.
‘Poor Georgie indeed,’ he echoed with feeling. ‘Oh, if only I was going with you instead, Olga. Then everything would be so lovely.’
‘Georgie!’ she exclaimed, pretending to be deeply shocked. ‘What sort of way is that for a happily married man to talk?’
‘I suppose it is rather disloyal, particularly when she’s proposing to spend so much money,’ he replied lamely, ‘but honestly, Olga, you know what she’s like.’
‘I do,’ she admitted. ‘I can just see her clutching her Vasari, and correcting the guide when he gets anything wrong, even if it’s the name of a muscle in a sculpture.’
‘She does!’ he cried. ‘She did it when we were in Rome! All I wanted to do was sit down and have a cool prosecco, and she spent twenty minutes lecturing someone about the Bernini fountains from under her parasol.’
‘Hm, I see the difficulty,’ Olga murmured sympathetically. Then she fell silent and gazed off into the distance, looking vacantly at the people wandering backwards and forwards past the palm court, her fingers drumming idly on the tablecloth. Georgie took another sip at his drink, and studied her.
‘Olga,’ he ventured, ‘why, I do believe you’ve got an idea.’
‘Georgie,’ she replied with the beginnings of one of her special smiles, ‘I do believe I have. Why don’t you buy me lunch, and I’ll tell you what it is. I’m starving!’
‘You’re always starving,’ he chided her, at which she stuck her tongue out at him.
‘But you are also very wonderful,’ Georgie observed contentedly, as he looked up and beckoned the waiter in what he thought was a highly polished way, showing exactly the right amount of cuff.
‘Where, Georgie dear?’ Lucia enquired, laying down her lorgnette.
‘Bellagio,’ he repeated.
‘Which is where, dear, exactly?’ she asked distractedly, as if to emphasise that this exchange was keeping her from her morning correspondence. ‘Do remind me.’
‘It’s near Milan, I think,’ he said, remembering what Olga had told him to say. ‘Milan has a wonderful duomo apparently, and you haven’t seen it, you know. It’s just a little railway journey away from there, but we can take Cadman, of course – and Foljambe, naturally.’
Lucia looked dubious.
‘I hardly think, Georgie,’ she intoned, ‘that Milan is our sort of place. Certainly I’ve never heard Mr Wyse or the Contessa mention it. One must be very careful when visiting unknown locations on the Continent, you know. Why, it might be positively full of Italians.’
Georgie was taken aback.
‘Well, it is in Italy, you know,’ he said with some asperity. ‘I understand most Italian towns have quite a high proportion of Italian inhabitants.’
Lucia looked at him severely.
‘Don’t be silly, Georgie,’ she admonished him. ‘I mean the wrong sort of Italians, naturally.’
‘And just what is the wrong sort of Italian?’
‘Oh, the northerners, you know,’ she said, waving her hand grandly as if to consign most of the Renaissance city-states to the far corners of historical reckoning, and with the memory of that humiliating incident on the Ponte Vecchio flooding back. ‘All that Borgia blood – clearly most unsuitable.’
She sighed deeply.
‘Well, there’s no Borgia blood in Milan,’ Georgie insisted. ‘That was Florence. Milan had the Viscontis and the Sforzas.’
Lucia sighed deeply again and gave one of her little non-committal noises, which generally presaged her taking serious issue with her interlocutor.
‘And anyway,’ Georgie pressed on firmly, ‘as for meeting the wrong sort of people, nothing could be further from the truth. Olga has been to Bellagio herself many times, and says it’s one of the most stylish and exclusive resorts in Europe. Why, she met the Prince of Wales there the last time, I think.’
‘That,’ said Lucia with a distinct shudder, ‘is hardly a recommendation.’
‘Well, I’ve already made the arrangements,’ he said recklessly. ‘Anyway, I’m sure we can go somewhere else if you don’t like it. We will have the Rolls, after all.’
‘I see, Georgie,’ Lucia said sharply. ‘No thought of consulting me first, then?’
‘But you told me to choose, and make the arrangements,’ Georgie replied in exasperation, ‘and that’s exactly what I’ve done.’
‘I see,’ Lucia repeated distantly, looking away from him.
‘Oh, but you will like it, Lucia, just you wait and see,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Olga says it’s ever so much fun. They have a lake, and beautiful gardens, and a wonderful restaurant.’
‘I see,’ she repeated, more distantly still, her head tilted slightly upwards and held motionless.
‘And concerts outside in the evening,’ he finished, triumphantly. ‘There! You’ll like that, won’t you?’
‘Mosquitoes, Georgie,’ she breathed forlornly, gazing fixedly at the dado rail. ‘Mosquitoes.’
‘Any news?’ Diva asked, rather breathlessly as usual, as Georgie and Lucia approached.
‘Rather!’ said Georgie. ‘Guess where we have decided to take our holidays this summer.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Diva, looking rather flummoxed, since of course she already knew but had to pretend not to, ‘no good at guessing things.’
‘Riseholme, I’ll be bound,’ Elizabeth said as she joined the group, Major Benjy having been despatched to the golf links.
Elizabeth had previously been the proud owner of Mallards but had speculated less successfully than Lucia, and been forced, with much wailing and rending of garments, to accept Grebe in part-exchange for Mallards. Since Grebe stood on the marshes, well out of town, she was frequently now, to her chagrin, the last rather than the first to hear a piece of ‘news’. This was one of those occasions.
‘Pardon me,’ she sang, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing. So nice in the summer. Why, I remember my stay there with great affection.’
‘Wrong,’ came Georgie’s instant rejoinder. ‘Try again.’
‘I really couldn’t say then, I’m sure,’ said Elizabeth, her smile growing wider despite a sour tone creeping in. ‘Perhaps you’re off to the North Pole or going to take tea with the King!’
She laughed shrilly while looking at the surrounding houses as if in search of further inspiration, and then was clearly struck by a most painful possibility.
‘You haven’t,’ she asked, with a grimace which she attempted unsuccessfully to moderate, ‘been invited to Capri with the Wyses by the Contessa?’
Elizabeth had been angling for an invitation herself for years without success, largely because the Contessa, Mr Wyse’s sister, had an unfathomable aversion to spending any time in Mrs Mapp-Flint’s company, usually referring to her simply as ‘that woman‘, and with a scowl to boot, as she lit a new cheroot.
As if conjured up by the underlying venom of this demand, the Wyses’ Rolls (or ‘the Royce’ as Susan referred to it) drew up smoothly alongside, the chauffeur walked round to open the door, and Susan alighted in a tidal wave of furs. Mr Wyse followed, less opulently but more colourfully clad in plum velvet plus fours.
‘Dear Susan,’ said Lucia, ‘how opportune your arrival. Elizabeth was just conjecturing on our holiday destination, and Capri was mentioned, along with your dear Amelia.’
‘And are you going to Capri, Lucia?’ asked Susan.
‘Why, that would be nice,’ she continued, with an uncertain glance at her husband. ‘It would be wonderful to see you there.’
‘No,’ Georgie burst out, unable to contain his news any longer. ‘We’re going to Bellagio.’
There was a bemused silence at this revelation, save only for Mr Wyse, who managed to look reflective, knowledgeable and approving in quick succession.
‘Bellagio?’ Mr Wyse mused, with a respectful bow in its general direction out across the salt flats. ‘Indeed, I believe I have heard my sister speak of it.’
‘It would not surprise me,’ Lucia said airily. ‘It is of course frequented by the very best sort of people. I positively insisted to Georgie that we should go there.’
Georgie gave a little ‘oh’ which got lost in the background as Lucia flowed majestically on.
‘We will go by sea to Genoa, I think, and then take the Rolls on from there to Milan. Dear Milan, with its duomo! Why, I can hardly wait.’
She clapped her gloved hands lightly together to add emphasis to her impatience.
‘Why Georgie, come to think of it, I’m sure Genoa must have a duomo too, non è vero?’ she added.
‘Indeed it must,’ Elizabeth said acidly. ‘Why, you’ll be able to have a positive feast of duomos, Lucia dear. Duomos for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I shouldn’t wonder.’
There was an embarrassed pause, as there often was after Elizabeth attempted to inject irony into a conversation, for hers was not of the lightest variety. Elizabeth, however, viewed reducing any conversation to silence as a significant achievement in itself, particularly if Lucia had been talking at the time, and allowed herself a brief smile. Then the knowledge of what she had to impart swelled within her already ample bosom, and the smile broadened.
‘But how silly of me! I have news of my own.’
‘No!’ said Diva automatically, but somewhat half-heartedly.
‘Yes!’ countered Elizabeth equally automatically, but much more enthusiastically. ‘We’re entertaining a maharajah to lunch tomorrow. There! What do you think of that?’
This time the chorus of ‘No!’ was spontaneous and heartfelt.
‘Would this be the maharajah whom dear Major Benjy saved from a tiger with a sword?’ asked Lucia, recovering quickly.
‘Oh, dear me.’ She pressed her knuckles against her forehead with a puzzled expression. ‘Or was it a rifle, or perhaps a revolver? I really should know, shouldn’t I? After all, I’ve heard the story so many times.’
‘His son, dear, I assume,’ Elizabeth said curtly. ‘I would imagine that Benjy’s dear old maharajah would be pretty ancient by now, wouldn’t you?’
‘But no older than Major Benjy, surely?’ Lucia enquired innocently, at which Elizabeth looked most disagreeable and clutched the handle of her shopping bag very tightly indeed.
‘Well, we shall see, dear,’ she said with some acerbity, ‘and now I really must be off. So many things to be done for His Highness’s visit, of course. Au reservoir!’
There was a dutiful chorus of ‘Au reservoir’ in return, and a raising of hats from Georgie and Mr Wyse, as she rolled away with heavy dignity.
The remaining members of the group looked at each other without speaking.
‘Hm!’ said Diva meaningfully.
‘Is there really a maharajah, do you think?’ Georgie enquired that lunchtime, as he deftly lifted the flesh from his sea bream.
‘Of course not,’ Lucia replied scornfully. ‘Why, she was just desperate to trump our Bellagio, and said the first thing to come into her head.’
‘Yes, I expect you’re right,’ Georgie said. ‘Jolly good bream this, Lucia.’
‘One really feels very sorry for her,’ Lucia sighed sympathetically. ‘What a very sad woman. So given to jealousy and falsehoods.’
‘A dangerous game to play though, don’t you think? Like that time she pretended to be pregnant after they got married.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Lucia reflectively, ‘dear Elizabeth’s wind-egg. How well I remember it.’
‘Yes, but that’s exactly my point,’ Georgie went on. ‘After all, what happens when everyone discovers that this silly maharajah is just as much a figment of Elizabeth’s imagination as her pregnancy was?’
‘And why should they?’ Lucia asked, as if the answer to the question was obvious.
Georgie took a pensive mouthful of his hock to think what he might have missed, but both he and the hock proved unequal to the task.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked lamely.
‘Georgie, you can be so slow sometimes! Glebe is tucked away on its own, and there’s no need for anyone to come through the town to get there if they’re driving from London. So how will she ever be found out? She can just give us a detailed account of a fictitious lunch with some totally imaginary maharajah, and we’ll all be none the wiser. She’d never have been able to pull a stunt like that if she’d still been living here, at Mallards.’
‘I see,’ said Georgie intently. ‘Yes, you’re right of course, Lucia.’
Lucia, who was used to being right of course, smiled indulgently.
‘I say,’ Georgie exclaimed, ‘doesn’t it make your blood boil? That the wretched woman should get away with it, I mean?’
Lucia smiled again, but this time more dangerously.
‘Who said anything about her getting away with it, caro mio?’ she said.
‘Don’t say you have a plan?’ Georgie asked hopefully.
‘I do indeed, Georgie. What could be more natural than for me to hold a tea party tomorrow afternoon and invite Elizabeth and Benjy to bring their guest with them?’
‘Brilliant!’ cried Georgie. ‘And when she and the Major turn up alone, or make an excuse and don’t come ...’
‘Her maharajah will be exploded for another one of her wind-eggs,’ Lucia finished for him.
‘Brilliant!’ Georgie said again, smiling broadly.
‘Yes, I am rather, aren’t I?’ Lucia replied tolerantly as she rang for Grosvenor, ‘And now some lamb chops, I fancy.’
Major Benjamin Flint, known – as has already been recounted – as Major Benjy, was just enjoying his second helping of toast and marmalade when the doorbell rang, though his ‘enjoyment’ was perhaps not as complete as it might normally have been since for the last twenty-four hours there had been a great deal of housework going on, and the house smelt strongly of bleach and beeswax, which seemed to make him want to sneeze continually.
He looked across his newspaper at his wife, pulling his watch out of his pocket.
‘Who on earth can that be at this time in the morning?’ he enquired.
‘Doubtless we shall find out when Withers opens the door,’ Elizabeth retorted icily.
‘Ah,’ he said, rejoining the racing results, though in a very half-hearted manner since he had for some time been denied further credit by his bookmaker.
‘A note from Mrs Pillson, if you please, mum,’ Withers reported, offering it on a silver tray. ‘Cadman just brought it and is to wait for an answer, if convenient.’
‘Ah-hah,’ said Elizabeth meaningfully as she tore it open, and then ‘Ah-hah’ again even more meaningfully as she scanned it.
‘What is it?’ asked Major Benjy, digging his knife into the marmalade.
‘Invitation to tea from Lucia, if you please,’ she replied, dropping it casually on the table. ‘And do use the spoon, Benjy, that’s what it’s for.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ he asked, putting his knife down guiltily. ‘She does damn good teas.’
Elizabeth smiled widely and spoke to Withers.
‘Please ask Cadman to tell Mrs Pillson we will be delighted to attend, and please to forgive the lack of a note given the earliness of the hour.’
Withers bobbed, said ‘Very good, mum’ and was gone.
The Major had noticed the smile, and it made him duly nervous.
‘What’s up, old girl?’
‘Benjy, will you never understand the depths that woman will go to?’
The word ‘depths’ came out as an indignant cry of barely suppressed rage, and Major Benjy, deciding to treat the question as rhetorical, wisely said nothing. His wife breathed deeply a few times to control her emotions, and then elucidated.
‘She doesn’t believe in the maharajah, that’s what’s up. Her invitation includes him. We’re to take him with us, because her high and mightiness thinks we won’t be able to. She thinks I’ve made the whole thing up.’
She crumpled the note suddenly in her hand and threw it towards the fireplace with an exclamation of disgust that also doubled as a howl of rage.
‘The hypocrisy of the woman! She tells such outrageous lies herself, and then accuses other people of doing the same. It does make my blood boil so! When will other people see her for what she really is: a fraud, a liar and a cheat?’
She positively spat out the last word, and then took a large swig of tepid tea in an effort to compose herself.
‘How I wish now that we had invited someone else for lunch,’ she said fiercely.
‘But we couldn’t do that Liz, old girl,’ her husband pointed out, attempting to inject a note of reason into the proceedings, ‘he specifically asked to speak to us privately.’
‘Oh, why don’t you go and play golf instead of sitting around the house all morning?’ she replied tetchily. Reason, it appeared, was not a welcome caller at Grebe that day.
He glanced out of the window, noticing that it looked very much like rain. He did not much relish the prospect of getting wet through while waiting for the little tram to the golf links. Clearly the old girl would have to be mollified. He fixed his wife with a winning smile, which he had always believed closely resembled that of Ronald Colman.
‘But look here, old thing, we can produce the article, can’t we? We will just persuade HRH to pop in on some friends with us and then we’ll turn up at Mallards with the maharajah in tow, what? Then who will look silly? Her, not you.’
Elizabeth stopped twisting her napkin angrily and reflected.
‘Yes,’ she said, a ferocious smile beginning to appear.
‘Damn silly,’ he proffered, picking up his newspaper again.
‘Silly,’ she repeated, as if trying the word out for size.
‘Damn silly indeed, if you ask me,’ he ended, dismissively.
She gazed at him with something close to affection.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any more toast is there?’ he asked hopefully, peering round the edge of the newspaper.