joint powers to deal with.’ She took a forkful of salmon and smiled mischievously.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she giggled, ‘our counter-offensive is already underway.’
‘Are you up to something?’ he enquired eagerly. ‘Do tell.’
‘I didn’t have a chance to tell you before because I didn’t want to mention anything in front of Olga,’ she said, ‘but she got poor Padre to ask me if Noël would open the fête at Tenterden in three weeks’ time.’
‘No!’ Georgie cried.
‘Yes!’ she responded enthusiastically.
‘But what on earth did you say?’ he asked desperately.
‘Fortunately,’ she explained, ‘Padre got rather flustered and asked me to open it instead, which request I of course duly accepted.’
‘But how the Dickens did that happen?’
‘Well,’ Lucia admitted coyly, ‘I did have something to do with it.’
Georgie stared at her in admiration as she gave a tinkling laugh, holding her hand in front of her mouth and gazing at him coquettishly over the top of it.
‘Well, aren’t you wonderful?’ he exclaimed in awe. ‘So her little plan has been foiled.’
‘Exactly,’ Lucia agreed.
‘But hang on a minute,’ Georgie said suddenly. ‘Mapp won’t let it go at that, will she?’
Lucia shrugged.
‘What can she do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Georgie mused, ‘but I really can’t see her just sitting back and accepting it. Why, she’ll be simply furious. Poor Padre! I wouldn’t like to be him when he has to tell Mapp that he forgot his lines.’
‘Poor Elizabeth!’ Lucia said with a sigh. ‘It must be dreadful to have such a nasty, scheming nature.’
The Padre’s ordeal in fact took place shortly after the aforementioned conversation over the lunch table at Mallards. He had successfully avoided the encounter the day before, and had sought to do so again by declining Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s invitation to tea at Grebe on the grounds that he needed to be at the Vicarage working on his sermon for Sunday. This was to prove a mistake. A planned excursion to some far-flung part of the country might have been a better expedient, since, he having rashly divulged his location, Mrs Mapp-Flint ran him to earth later that same afternoon, applying her considerable displeasure to a pattern of door-knocking which, according to Oscar Wilde, is normally employed only by creditors and relatives.
While the Padre was still warbling ‘Mistress Mapp-Flint’ in a somewhat helpless, despairing manner, he found himself propelled backwards down the hallway, though whether by physical bulk or sheer force of personality he was unable later to remember, and came to rest on an upright chair while his redoubtable visitor subsided on to a sofa, which groaned audibly as she did so.
‘Now then, Padre,’ she began briskly, ‘what is all this nonsense about the fête?’
Reverend Bartlett’s eyes roamed desperately around the room with the air of a man with the smell of smoke in his nostrils in urgent search of an emergency exit.
‘Nonsense?’ he echoed foolishly.
‘Nonsense I said, and nonsense I mean. You know perfectly well, Padre, that you were supposed to be asking Lucia to invite Noël Coward to open the fête, not to do it herself.’
‘Aye, well, there may have been a wee thing of a misunderstanding, ye ken,’ he ventured.
‘Misunderstanding fiddlesticks!’ she snapped. ‘What you mean is she managed to twist your words to make it seem as if you had said something you hadn’t.’
‘Well, no, I’m not sure that was the way of it,’ he protested, though come to think of it Mapp’s assessment, while brutally expressed, was not altogether inaccurate.
‘Well, what “was the way of it”, then?’ she replied, falling silent and gazing at him fixedly with her head tilted to one side.
The Padre tried to find some coherent answer but failed, getting only as far as ‘Well’, repeated ruminatively every three seconds or so.
‘You see!’ Mapp said triumphantly.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she giggled, ‘our counter-offensive is already underway.’
‘Are you up to something?’ he enquired eagerly. ‘Do tell.’
‘I didn’t have a chance to tell you before because I didn’t want to mention anything in front of Olga,’ she said, ‘but she got poor Padre to ask me if Noël would open the fête at Tenterden in three weeks’ time.’
‘No!’ Georgie cried.
‘Yes!’ she responded enthusiastically.
‘But what on earth did you say?’ he asked desperately.
‘Fortunately,’ she explained, ‘Padre got rather flustered and asked me to open it instead, which request I of course duly accepted.’
‘But how the Dickens did that happen?’
‘Well,’ Lucia admitted coyly, ‘I did have something to do with it.’
Georgie stared at her in admiration as she gave a tinkling laugh, holding her hand in front of her mouth and gazing at him coquettishly over the top of it.
‘Well, aren’t you wonderful?’ he exclaimed in awe. ‘So her little plan has been foiled.’
‘Exactly,’ Lucia agreed.
‘But hang on a minute,’ Georgie said suddenly. ‘Mapp won’t let it go at that, will she?’
Lucia shrugged.
‘What can she do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Georgie mused, ‘but I really can’t see her just sitting back and accepting it. Why, she’ll be simply furious. Poor Padre! I wouldn’t like to be him when he has to tell Mapp that he forgot his lines.’
‘Poor Elizabeth!’ Lucia said with a sigh. ‘It must be dreadful to have such a nasty, scheming nature.’
The Padre’s ordeal in fact took place shortly after the aforementioned conversation over the lunch table at Mallards. He had successfully avoided the encounter the day before, and had sought to do so again by declining Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s invitation to tea at Grebe on the grounds that he needed to be at the Vicarage working on his sermon for Sunday. This was to prove a mistake. A planned excursion to some far-flung part of the country might have been a better expedient, since, he having rashly divulged his location, Mrs Mapp-Flint ran him to earth later that same afternoon, applying her considerable displeasure to a pattern of door-knocking which, according to Oscar Wilde, is normally employed only by creditors and relatives.
While the Padre was still warbling ‘Mistress Mapp-Flint’ in a somewhat helpless, despairing manner, he found himself propelled backwards down the hallway, though whether by physical bulk or sheer force of personality he was unable later to remember, and came to rest on an upright chair while his redoubtable visitor subsided on to a sofa, which groaned audibly as she did so.
‘Now then, Padre,’ she began briskly, ‘what is all this nonsense about the fête?’
Reverend Bartlett’s eyes roamed desperately around the room with the air of a man with the smell of smoke in his nostrils in urgent search of an emergency exit.
‘Nonsense?’ he echoed foolishly.
‘Nonsense I said, and nonsense I mean. You know perfectly well, Padre, that you were supposed to be asking Lucia to invite Noël Coward to open the fête, not to do it herself.’
‘Aye, well, there may have been a wee thing of a misunderstanding, ye ken,’ he ventured.
‘Misunderstanding fiddlesticks!’ she snapped. ‘What you mean is she managed to twist your words to make it seem as if you had said something you hadn’t.’
‘Well, no, I’m not sure that was the way of it,’ he protested, though come to think of it Mapp’s assessment, while brutally expressed, was not altogether inaccurate.
‘Well, what “was the way of it”, then?’ she replied, falling silent and gazing at him fixedly with her head tilted to one side.
The Padre tried to find some coherent answer but failed, getting only as far as ‘Well’, repeated ruminatively every three seconds or so.
‘You see!’ Mapp said triumphantly.
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