Fraser-Sampson - Major Benjy

Major Benjy

Major Benjy

A Mapp and Lucia novel

Guy Fraser-Sampson

First published 2013 by Elliott and Thompson Limited

27 John Street, LondonWC1N 2BX

www.eandtbooks.com

ISBN: 978-1-908739-70-4

Text Guy Fraser-Sampson 2013. Originally published by Troubadour Publishing, 2008.

The Author has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of thisWork.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by Marie Doherty

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

This edition is not for sale in the United States of America.

T he picturesque town of Tilling perches confidently on a rocky outcrop that once jutted proudly out to sea, making it an ideal setting for a constant game of hide-and-seek between smugglers and customs men. Alas, the natural harbour which had been the towns raison dtre silted up, and the English Channel gradually retreated, leaving behind only salt marshes and colonies of vociferous gulls. Despite these vicissitudes of history, however, Tilling remains a popular and attractive place of residence for ladies and gentlemen of refined tastes, and its landmarks, such as the Landgate, the gun platform and the delightful church, offer ready subjects for what they typically refer to in self-deprecating fashion as their daubs.

Had one been standing on top of the church tower one spring morning, one would have seen the blackness of the night sky beginning to acquire a distinctly purplish tinge over the Kentish marshes to the east, which could perhaps have been conveyed by some rather daring sponging with cobalt violet, before turning rapidly into a pinkish-grey mistiness, which would in all conscience have required talent of Turneresque proportions to portray, talents far beyond those even of candidates considered by the Tilling hanging committee. However, even while their hesitant hands had been reaching for the permanent magenta, the pure pale sunlight for which Tilling is justly famous would have spread rapidly across the landscape below like a giant rug being unfurled, and the town would have acquired the appearance by which it was instantly recognisable from any number of paintings. Apart, that is, from those of Irene Coles, universally known as Quaint Irene, who, while being Tillings only acknowledged professional artist, seemed to perceive Tilling somewhat differently from the mere mortals around her, and whose views of the High Street could inexplicably involve large numbers of naked people dancing around a burning town hall while winged and clawed ghoulies, some of which might bear an amazing though surely accidental resemblance to various worthy Tilling residents, hovered and screeched overhead.

Sadly, though, nobody was standing on the church tower to admire this artistic kaleidoscope unfolding, since it was generally recognised that polite society in Tilling did not rise before nine, at which time one might decently draw back ones curtains and consume a hearty breakfast. It was, however, understood and accepted that Miss Mapp would rise well before this point, since she was known to favour the early morning as her thinking time, when she would sit dreamily in the window of the garden room at Mallards with a finger resting across her chin and a faraway expression on her face, surely too dreamily for anyone to think that she might be observing the manner and time of her neighbours houses coming to life.

This morning the famous Tilling sunshine beat persistently against a bedroom window upon which Miss Mapps glassily unseeing gaze had been resting for a good hour or so, and filtered into the room through the cracks in the shutters, casting a ladder of light and shade on the countenance of a middle-aged man lying in bed and becoming slowly and somewhat reluctantly acquainted with the happy morn.

Major Benjamin Flint, late of His Majestys Indian Army, was apt to be in poor spirits first thing in the morning, and could frequently be heard berating his servant should his kippers be cold or his porridge lumpy. On such occasions he would confide to his friends that he was not quite the thing that morning, and would hint darkly at recurrent and mysterious diseases of tropical origin. His friends would naturally commiserate most sympathetically with an officer who had been forced to do such violence to his long-term health in the service of King and country. Yet as soon as he moved on they would conjecture amongst themselves that the good majors ailment probably had more to do with prolonged exposure to Bombay gin than to the city of the same name.

Major Benjy, as he was known to his friends, lay in that halfway state between sleep and wakefulness, when one is fully conscious only of a headache and trying to come to terms with the enormity of getting out of bed, while being somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of something one has forgotten and really should have remembered. With a heartfelt groan he swung two hairy legs out of bed, felt for his slippers, and then opened the shutters. This proved to be something of a mistake as the pure Tilling sunlight struck him squarely in the face and he uttered a little cry and tottered backwards, sitting down again heavily on the bed. From her vantage point Miss Mapp heard the cry and stored it away tidily in that part of her mind which was reserved for the fermenting of solicitous enquiries after an individuals well-being which could be delivered quizzically, though in a kind, neighbourly fashion, during the mornings shopping.

Major Benjys second attempt at embracing the day was rather more successful than the first and some moments later found him sitting at the breakfast table, which Sarah, his servant, seemed quite inexplicably to have neglected to lay that morning, and staring fixedly at his newspaper. Fixed though his gaze might be, his nostrils twitched, at first with puzzlement and then with mounting rage. Where his olfactory receptors might reasonably have expected to encounter the aroma of toast, kippers, bacon or coffee, they met none. The conclusion was inescapable: his breakfast was not ready, not even in the course of preparation, and so his brave attempt at coming downstairs without even the benefit of aspirin or bicarbonate of soda had been in vain. He drew an ample breath and shouted Quai-Hai! at the top of his voice, though he knew it was likely to hurt. It did.

Framed in the window of her garden room, Miss Mapp allowed a knowing smile to flit briefly across her face. At much the same time the Major, still attempting to focus on his newspaper, happened to open it at the page of classified advertisements and in that moment there came upon him the awful realisation of what it was that he had forgotten but really ought to have remembered. Sarah, having given notice a month previously when he had occasion to exchange sharp words with her about his kippers, had left the day before, and his increasingly desperate efforts in recent days to find a replacement through the columns of the Tilling Gazette had proved fruitless. There was no Sarah to make his bed or tidy his room. There was no Sarah patiently to retrieve his golf clubs from the various corners into which he flung them after losing half a crown on the eighteenth green to the Padre. Worse still, infinitely worse, there was no Sarah to cook his breakfast. He gave a hollow groan, dropped the newspaper on to the bare table and went dejectedly in search of Alka-Seltzer.