Chapter 2
Alexander rose early by habit, and Jeff opened his bedroom door, hearing him moving.
“You can’t sleep in either, eh?” said Alexander, jovially. “No, no, don’t blush for still being in pyjamas, I was going to have breakfast in my dressing gown and then take a leisurely bath when the boiler has had a chance to heat up properly. I’ll be putting something more modern in so there’s enough hot water for everyone, but I told Mary not on any account to skimp for herself. I don’t see why I shouldn’t please myself in my own home, so please join me in PJs!”
“I don’t say I don’t get myself breakfast before dressing at times on the weekend,” admitted Jeff. “You can tell me about the village players.”
“Certainly! Though the one I know best is Fred Chaffinch, the stationmaster. A fine bass, and sings at work. His lady wife, Polly, is a soprano who can stretch to mezzo at need, she usually sings the lead, and has kept herself trim enough to pass for half her age on stage. Fred’s frankly portly, but some of that is down to the excellence of the pastry in the bakery. Polly firmly feeds him healthy food, but Fred’s a rebel.”
“I sympathise,” said Jeff.
“Me too; but I do exercise more than Fred,” said Alexander. “Polly is also a creature of habit, and feeds him according to what day it is. And sometimes a man gets bored. But he won’t take it up with her, as she’s a good wife to him, and he doesn’t like to criticise.”
“I should say if a woman has only one fault, it would be ungrateful,” agreed Jeff. “So, she’s playing Yum-Yum? I picked up a libretto secondhand in Portobello Road. I’ve been studying them to keep up with you.”
“Bless you! That’s above and beyond,” said Alexander. “Ida’s singing Pitti Sing, and Gladys, who is more by way of being her companion than her maid, is singing t’other one. Peep-bo, that’s what she’s called. Apparently the three girls in the original 1885 production were all short and someone suggested to W.S. Gilbert that they should be schoolgirls, which led to probably the most well-known song from the show.”
“You live and learn!” said Jeff.
Breakfasted, dressed, and strolling out, Alexander continued his description of local notables.
“Dan Reckitt is our Nanki-Poo,” said Alexander. “He’s the postman; his father, Sam, is postmaster, which means he’s also newsagent, and owns the bakery and tea shop, so the role of Pooh-Bah is made for him, though with plenty of padding, as he’s as wiry as his son. Fred is the Mikado. Then there’s Tim Mapp, the local bobby, his best girl, Maggie Squires and her parents, Thomas and Marion, who run the bakery. Miss Thripp’s voice has been a problem, but she often fills in with secondary roles. And others who do the other roles. I don’t know everyone yet, but I will. Oh, Sid Smith, who is a mechanic and runs the garage; his father, Simon, is a blacksmith and farrier, and won’t have anything to do with ‘stage shenanigans.’ Cecily, Lady Baskerville, whom the locals call without regard to accuracy, ‘Lady Cecily’ doesn’t care to play on stage, but she’s an invaluable support in painting scenery; she’s a competent artist, if not in Ida’s league. And her little boy is happy to be dressed up and be a page or whatever, which keeps him occupied. Poor Cyril, lost his father before he was even born, and has a hollow title. Ida is a friend of Cecily’s and likes to keep an eye on Cyril.”
“It sounds like a community venture.”
“It really is. It’s mostly what you might call the skirters of the gentry, those with enough money and leisure to give time to it, land owners or shop holders. Cecily is, paradoxically, the poorest, but she’s popular, so she gets given offcuts of meat that ‘don’t look good enough to sell’ from Thruppence the butcher, or ends of fish ‘for a nice pie’ from Braithwaite, the fishmonger, who also runs the chippie, and sends her down leftovers. The Major was well-loved, apparently, Major Dennis Baskerville, that is. His widow is seen as someone to look after.”
“Somewhat feudal,” said Jeff, not sounding approving.
“Yes, but poor Cecily was reared in such a way as to be unfit for any career,” said Alexander. “She does exquisite embroidery which Ida arranges to be sold, but it does not sell for its true value, of course. Ida got her involved in adding beadwork to fashion gowns, which does her better. She, Ida that is, has a schoolfriend who runs a boutique, on the strength of fashion drawings Ida did for her, being the forceful sort of young lady who took on board the reverses her family suffered and went out to do something about it, having a skill with dressmaking, and some skill with design. Ida helped make her fashionable, and Cecily now does delicate work for her. Velma, that’s the boutique owner, employs half a dozen girls, but that’s not really germane to the village here, as she’s based in London. You raided her when her brother, who’s a poisonous tick, ratted her up as running a bawdy house, as her employees live in, in the house her aunt left her.”
“That was damned embarrassing,” admitted Jeff. “She is a forceful lady, but she was very civil and forbearing. It was quite plainly no such thing as a bawdy house, and I said so. Her brother, was it? He’d bear watching.”
“Ida has her eyes on him,” said Alexander. “But I suspect he’s into drugs or something else illegal, I just haven’t got anything on him, yet.”
“Well, having met him, I, too, will keep an eye on Mr. Sidney Ambridge,” said Jeff. “I didn’t like him when he laid information.”
“Cheers,” said Alexander. “We might as well wander into the station, and I can introduce you to Fred.”
Fred Chaffinch pumped Jeff’s hand firmly.
“Mr. Armitage! You find me embarrassed,” he said to Alexander. “Would you mind switching roles in the play?”
“So long as I don’t have to sing Yum-Yum if your good lady has dropped out,” said Alexander. “The thought of what I’d have to do to reach those notes is excruciating.”
Fred boomed a laugh.
“Tears to the eyes, all right!” he agreed. “No, Oliver Oliver has dropped out of singing Koko.”
“No, really? Such a lugubrious fellow as our sexton was almost made for the part,” said Alexander. “I can sing Koko, but what about Katisha?”
Fred looked uncomfortable.
“Miss Thripp wants to do it,” he said.
“I thought the laryngitis she had last year had caused her problems?” said Alexander.
Fred pulled a face.
“She has her nephew, Edgar, staying with her, who thinks she should fight for her rights to tread the boards with everyone else, and who thinks her failing voice could be made a comic feature for Katisha.”
Alexander frowned.
“That sounds cruel,” he said. “However, I’ll see if my mother will produce some of her famous honey, haw and blackcurrant wine to help her throat. I didn’t like to push in and suggest it before, but under the circumstances….”
Fred sniggered.
“She’s teetotal, is Miss Thripp, but if you tell her it’s medicine, she’ll take it religiously before bed, and if it gives her wilder dreams than she’s used to, I’m sure it won’t do her any harm. Thank you for understanding; normally she would sing something like Peep-bo, who has a tiny part, but she would take part.”
“If it gets too much for her, I’m sure Gladys would swap roles. Resourceful girl and quite capable of singing Katisha,” said Alexander.
Fred nodded.
“We can be flexible,” he said. “We’re used to things going wrong and carrying on like nothing has happened. We had some schoolmaster down one year, writing about the resourceful nature of the village schoolmistress for some academic magazine, and we got up a talent show, and he declaimed ‘Tubal Cain;’ and he did it with such an affected manner, and outrageous gestures, Simon Smith got it into his head that he was taking the mock, and advanced on him. Seemingly the schoolmaster had passed remarks on obsolete skills when Sid was doing up his car; and Sid hung one on him, being fond of his father. Pacifying Simon and getting them both offstage in opposite directions was a nightmare!”
“I can imagine,” said Alexander. “Simon Smith’s a force of nature when set off about something. And Sid’s a good son to him, as well as being my mechanic of choice even with all London to choose from.”
“I’ll drop him the word you said that,” said Fred. “He’ll be that chuffed!”
“It’s true,” said Alexander. “What of this Edgar… Thripp, I assume as you gave no other name?”
“Miss Thripp’s poor brother’s boy, though what was poor about him I don’t know,” said Fred. “St. John Thripp was a wastrel and a scoundrel, married money and spent it, and fell drunk into the river and drowned leaving Edgar at university where Miss Thripp paid for him as his poor mother had died quietly of grief in fear of asking for enough money to replace the rags St. John Thripp’s shenanigans reduced her to. My missus is all for women exercising their rights to hang on to their own money, but that poor silly girl had no idea she was allowed to.”
“That’s a poor job on the part of her solicitor,” said Alexander.
“You never said a truer word! At least Miss T is shrewd enough to hang on to her little nest egg from her aunt; she paid for Edgar’s schooling from savings from her pay as schoolmistress.”
“She is no fool,” said Alexander. “I’ll wire for Mama to send her some throat juice, which is what we all called it growing up. And often extended our symptoms to be allowed it for a little longer.”
Fred laughed.
“You could probably make a fortune from it… if it weren’t against the law,” he said.
“Oh, Mama raises money for good causes at local fairs by selling a recipe for sixpence, and a free taste of the wine involved,” he said. “No alcohol is paid for; it’s complimentary alongside the typewritten recipe.”
“Now that’s casuistry!” said Jeff.
“Of course it is,” said Alexander. “But it raises money for the orphanage, or the church tower, and it’s not even harmful. Well, not unless anyone drinks too many recipes.”
“Drunk and disorderly is at least something that can be regulated,” said Jeff.
“More likely passed out and vomiting on the vicar’s wife,” said Alexander. “Ghastly woman; all teeth and false eyelashes, and upset about the flower show’s main man referring to his secret being plenty of dung. Wanted it called ‘manure,’ but it’s taken Gaffer Cubitt’s wife any time the last forty years getting him to call it ‘dung.’”
“Oh, a good bit of shit does wonders for the roses,” said Fred. “And the nasturshalums. You oughta see my station nasturshalums in summer, Mr. Armitage, one part horse shit to seven parts compost. I got my compost bin out back of the station, and everything goes on it, left sandwiches, flowers bought and left to wilt in waiting rooms, newspapers, straw from the egg packing, stale beer, it all works down to make a nice drop o’ compost.”
“You’d get on just fine with my mother,” said Alexander.
He took Jeff Morrell to the post office, which was combined with the bakery-cum-teashop, and sent a telegram.
“I love the way you just send telegrams and expect your mother to send wine by return of post,” said Jeff. “I’m teetotal myself, but I have to say, my aunt makes medicinal wine, and it’s delicious.”
“I like country wines better than most table wines, myself,” admitted Alexander. “My mother’s mead is to die for. And probably an illegal strength to even exist outside of something called a spirit.”
“Didn’t the Vikings drink mead?” asked Jeff.
“Yes,” said Alexander.
“Maybe that explains a thing or two about them,” said Jeff.
Alexander laughed.
“I wouldn’t argue,” he said. “Oh, there’s Miss Thripp, and she is looking at me with timid terror in case I demand to hold onto my role. Miss Thripp! My friend, Mr. Jeff Morrell; he’s staying with me and volunteers to help with scenery. I hear you’re up for Katisha?”
The little lady of indeterminate age spoke in a whisper.
“Oh, Mr. Armitage! Do you mind? My nephew, my poor brother’s boy, you know, thinks that playing Katisha with a whisper might have comic effect. He tries so hard, though I am a bit nervous…”
“I’ve written to my mother for her patent cure for laryngitis,” said Alexander. “Keep it in your bedroom, and take a glass every night, and you can surprise your nephew and everyone else with how quickly your voice gets back to normal. You’ll be the terror of the classroom again in no time!”
“Oh, do you think so? Children nowadays do need the occasional raise in the voice, and it’s so hard….”
“I’m sure it will work,” said Alexander, who suspected that part of Miss Thripp’s problem was fear of overtaxing her voice, leading to her subconsciously suppressing it.
Sam Reckitt strolled over.
“Mr. Armitage! Can you really help Miss Thripp’s voice? I didn’t like the idea of making her a laughing stock.”
“My mother’s concoction of honey, haw, and blackcurrant will do it,” said Alexander, with confidence. “But let’s keep it quiet, eh, Sam? Not let anyone try to make Miss Thripp force it. And what a lovely surprise for her nephew if she can get better and play the role as it should be played.”
“Oh, yes! Edgar means well, but I was not happy about being laughed at,” said Miss Thripp. “I will take my medicine like a good girl.”
“It’ll come from Essex to me, you can unwrap it, Sam, and pass direct to Miss Thripp, I give you permission,” said Alexander.
“Well, permission from the police to interfere with the mails, that’s a different kettle of fish to just opening it,” laughed Reckitt.
“My mother might just include another bottle for the good health of the players, so you can quietly squirrel that away,” said Alexander.
“Oh, ho! I see,” said Reckitt.
“So kind of your dear lady mother,” murmured Miss Thripp.
“She is,” said Alexander.
“Is it true that Mr. David Henderson is moving back to the village?” asked Reckitt. “I hear he remarried in haste.”
“Oh, Sam! Don’t you go fuelling the gossip. David adored Helen and was devastated when she was murdered, along with his brother, Basil, and all that dreadful business,” said Alexander[1]. “He remarried to Ida’s companion because he can’t cope with things like tradesmen and feeding himself, being all high-falutin’ architect and no common sense at all. I make an effort to be civil to him, but I find Elinor, his new wife, easier to deal with, and she handles him like a good nanny. It's a business arrangement, she gets security, and he gets to be looked after. Now, do be discreet about it, old man, but do scotch any rumours. Elinor is no young beauty sweeping him off his feet, and she knows it, but she’d still be hurt if anyone commented.”
“What, not Elinor Truckle?” asked Sam Reckit. “I thought she was Miss Ida’s governess.”
“Well, yes,” said Alexander. “But she has the knack of handling David. The builders should be starting today to clear and rebuild Foursquares.”
“Lord, not the same glass monstrosity as it was, I hope,” said Reckitt.
“No, Elinor and I put in our thoughts, and it shouldn’t be more than ordinarily ugly,” Said Alexander, with more honesty than tact.
Reckitt laughed heartily.
“Oh, well, it’s my boy who has to approach it with the mail.”
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