‘Clearly the woman just bamboozled you some way or other. It’s so like her. Never gives a straight answer to a straight question. Duplicity, thy name is Lulu.’
‘Charity, Mistress Mapp-Flint,’ the Padre protested weakly.
‘Charity, humbug!’ cried Mapp, who had by now gone very red in the face. ‘The question is, Padre, what are you going to do about it?’
‘I? Do?’ the Padre quavered, as if these words uttered in combination filled him with dread. ‘Well, really, Mistress Mapp-Flint, I don’t see there is anything I
can
do. A mistake has been made, right enough, but an honest mistake, surely?’
Mapp’s eyes bulged rather alarmingly at the word ‘honest’ and she drew breath to give vent again to her indignation. Seeking to forestall her, the Padre pressed on.
‘Has’nae she written it in her diary and everything? Would’nae it be an awful wicked thing to ask her to rearrange all her schedule? But it’s no use crying over spilt milk, ye ken. Let us summon up all our fortitude to bear what we must. It may prove inconvenient, but I’m sure it’s what He would expect.’
As he mentioned ‘He’, the Padre gazed meaningfully at the crucifix on the wall.
‘Oh, how like a man,’ Mapp shouted in exasperation, so overcome by her emotions as clearly to have forgotten to whom she was speaking. ‘Weak as water. No wonder she can trample all over you. Why do none of you have any
fight
in you?’
These deep emotions now bubbled to the surface as a positive wellspring, generously watering Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s second best handkerchief as she clutched it to her face, rocking backwards and forwards in her chair and repeating, ‘It’s so unfair!’ at intervals between her sobs. So lengthy did this lachrymose interlude become that the Padre had time to rise awkwardly from his chair, fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, return, place it gingerly beside his distraught lady parishioner and nervously resume his seat. Slowly, the flood subsided.
‘Are you quite recovered now, dear lady?’ he enquired solicitously. ‘Aye, nae doot you’ll be after going home to your Major Mapp-Flint.’
Of this pious hope he was, however, to be speedily disabused. Mapp raised a bleary yet steely eye from her wet, crumpled mess of a handkerchief and fixed him with the sort of piercing gaze which she generally reserved for her husband when caught in close proximity to strong liquor or attractive women, and especially when encountered in combination with each other.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Padre,’ she informed him, ‘until we have decided how you are going to sort out this mess which you have created.’
‘But my sermon …’ he protested, gesturing weakly towards his study.
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint treated this trifling objection with the contempt it deserved. ‘Fortunately,’ she said, speaking in an elaborately calm and measured fashion as if to a naughty child or a befuddled elderly relative, ‘I was able to give this matter some thought while walking here from Grebe, so at least one of us has managed to arrive at a solution.’
‘If indeed there is one,’ he interjected dubiously.
‘Oh, there is,’ she replied emphatically. ‘Now listen to me very carefully, Padre. All you have to do is to phone the Chairman of the Tenterden fête committee and explain that there has been a mix-up and that you need her to write to Lucia, saying …’
She broke off as she became aware of the Padre’s eyes revolving slowly and helplessly as he silently opened and closed his mouth.
‘On second thoughts,
I
will phone her,’ she said briskly. ‘Now then, Padre, who is it that we need to speak to?’
‘Her name is Mrs Campbell,’ the Padre gasped, feeling that cardiac arrest might prove both imminent and welcome, ‘but I would advise against such a course of action. Mistress Campbell can be, well … a little difficult at times.’
Mapp snorted and reached for the vicarage telephone. After a necessary
‘Charity, Mistress Mapp-Flint,’ the Padre protested weakly.
‘Charity, humbug!’ cried Mapp, who had by now gone very red in the face. ‘The question is, Padre, what are you going to do about it?’
‘I? Do?’ the Padre quavered, as if these words uttered in combination filled him with dread. ‘Well, really, Mistress Mapp-Flint, I don’t see there is anything I
can
do. A mistake has been made, right enough, but an honest mistake, surely?’
Mapp’s eyes bulged rather alarmingly at the word ‘honest’ and she drew breath to give vent again to her indignation. Seeking to forestall her, the Padre pressed on.
‘Has’nae she written it in her diary and everything? Would’nae it be an awful wicked thing to ask her to rearrange all her schedule? But it’s no use crying over spilt milk, ye ken. Let us summon up all our fortitude to bear what we must. It may prove inconvenient, but I’m sure it’s what He would expect.’
As he mentioned ‘He’, the Padre gazed meaningfully at the crucifix on the wall.
‘Oh, how like a man,’ Mapp shouted in exasperation, so overcome by her emotions as clearly to have forgotten to whom she was speaking. ‘Weak as water. No wonder she can trample all over you. Why do none of you have any
fight
in you?’
These deep emotions now bubbled to the surface as a positive wellspring, generously watering Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s second best handkerchief as she clutched it to her face, rocking backwards and forwards in her chair and repeating, ‘It’s so unfair!’ at intervals between her sobs. So lengthy did this lachrymose interlude become that the Padre had time to rise awkwardly from his chair, fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, return, place it gingerly beside his distraught lady parishioner and nervously resume his seat. Slowly, the flood subsided.
‘Are you quite recovered now, dear lady?’ he enquired solicitously. ‘Aye, nae doot you’ll be after going home to your Major Mapp-Flint.’
Of this pious hope he was, however, to be speedily disabused. Mapp raised a bleary yet steely eye from her wet, crumpled mess of a handkerchief and fixed him with the sort of piercing gaze which she generally reserved for her husband when caught in close proximity to strong liquor or attractive women, and especially when encountered in combination with each other.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Padre,’ she informed him, ‘until we have decided how you are going to sort out this mess which you have created.’
‘But my sermon …’ he protested, gesturing weakly towards his study.
Elizabeth Mapp-Flint treated this trifling objection with the contempt it deserved. ‘Fortunately,’ she said, speaking in an elaborately calm and measured fashion as if to a naughty child or a befuddled elderly relative, ‘I was able to give this matter some thought while walking here from Grebe, so at least one of us has managed to arrive at a solution.’
‘If indeed there is one,’ he interjected dubiously.
‘Oh, there is,’ she replied emphatically. ‘Now listen to me very carefully, Padre. All you have to do is to phone the Chairman of the Tenterden fête committee and explain that there has been a mix-up and that you need her to write to Lucia, saying …’
She broke off as she became aware of the Padre’s eyes revolving slowly and helplessly as he silently opened and closed his mouth.
‘On second thoughts,
I
will phone her,’ she said briskly. ‘Now then, Padre, who is it that we need to speak to?’
‘Her name is Mrs Campbell,’ the Padre gasped, feeling that cardiac arrest might prove both imminent and welcome, ‘but I would advise against such a course of action. Mistress Campbell can be, well … a little difficult at times.’
Mapp snorted and reached for the vicarage telephone. After a necessary
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